


To Say the Truth

by dark_nexus17



Series: Little Company [2]
Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mansell's laddish brand of humour, Mentions of OCD, OCD related behaviours, Post Season 4, Post Series, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4299885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_nexus17/pseuds/dark_nexus17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s an unusually sunny day for London, although it is in fact summer, (but in Britain that can mean anything from heat to hailstones), and DC Kent finds himself having a quiet cry in a secluded part of the car park behind the office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title: To Say the Truth
> 
> Pairings: Kent/Chandler, Erica Kent/ Finlay Mansell, Ray Miles/Judy Miles, Meg Riley/Riley’s husband
> 
> Warnings: Spoilers for all seasons of Whitechapel. Canon-typical violence. Some swearing. Mansell’s sense of humour. Angst (no more than in the show though, at least not at the moment). OCD related behaviours.
> 
> Summary: It’s an unusually sunny day for London, although it is in fact summer, (but in Britain that can mean anything from heat to hailstones), and DC Kent finds himself having a quiet cry in a secluded part of the car park behind the office.
> 
> This is a sequel/companion piece to ‘The sound of distant thunder’, though you don’t need to have read that to read this.
> 
> I have no idea how long this will turn out to be, or really where it’s going. I’m afraid I’ve never done a multi-chapter before without writing it all at once, so I’m not sure how frequent updates will be, but I’ll try not to keep you all waiting too long! Any mistakes are entirely my own fault. Also I don’t own Whitechapel.
> 
> Title taken from Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'.

***

  
It’s an unusually sunny day for London, although it is in fact summer, (but in Britain that can mean anything from heat to hailstones), and DC Kent finds himself having a quiet cry in a secluded part of the car park behind the office. It’s not as if he can go in the loos; Chandler would no doubt find him, accidentally, on a quest to wash his hands or change his shirt – it’s been one of those weeks. Or Miles could find him, or – God forbid – Mansell. Then he’d never bloody live it down.

  
He sighs, letting a couple of tears fall: sometimes it’s best to get it all out and hope that no one notices when he goes back in with red eyes and a stuffy nose, croaking when he tries to speak. He just couldn’t bloody contain it anymore.

  
They’ve been chasing a madman all week, but then again they get all the mad cases, so that’s not saying much, this particular madman though, (the man bit is an educated guess, based on the frankly brutal method of killing), has a penchant for young lads. Not that young mind you, thankfully the criminal doesn’t appear to have a taste for teens or kids, because that would just be a bit too much, but the victims are young all the same. There have been three of them so far, within the short time frame of six days, this being the seventh. They’re all in their early twenties, sliced open from neck to groin, with the skin peeled back. Apparently this had been done while they were alive, after which their killer would remove their livers, and then put them out of their misery by strangling them with a piece of rope, judging from the marks around what’s left of the skin around the throats.

  
The latest vic, number three, found last night, happened to look a bit like one of Kent’s old flat mates. Not enough to suspect that it was him, (the age wasn’t right), but enough that Kent’s stomach had dropped momentarily, like when you’re feeling your way through the dark and you put a foot wrong. He’d just been down to look at the body in pathology; Llewellyn had been kind enough to let him have another look at the poor bloke’s face, just to reassure himself that it wasn’t his friend who led there.

  
The temporary shock of it, combined with a shift that’s run on for more than 24 hours now, and the eventual relief he supposes, are just some of the reasons he now finds himself wiping away the saltwater tracks that are slowly trickling their way down his face. He sniffs, and pulls a tissue out of his pocket to blow his nose and wipe his eyes – not in that order of course. You’d think that after being a Detective Constable for five sodding years, and four of those dealing with the weirdest cases that Whitechapel had to offer, he’d have toughened up enough not to have to sneak out of the building for a hopefully not so obvious weeping session. Kent thinks it’s part of what keeps him from diving head-first off the edge they’re always close to. He can have a cry and let some of the bad stuff in his head flow out through his tear ducts and down his face, or at least that’s how he likes to think of it.

  
He knows he’ll have to go back in soon, but he’d rather stay where he is for a few more seconds, soaking up some of the sun’s rays while he can. It’s not as if he gets much chance for it, criminals tend to operate at night, and the office is mostly basement. He read somewhere that spending some time in the sun each day can have all sorts of benefits. There’s vitamin D of course, but the article had said that it can slow your heart rate, act as a de-stressor, and heaven knows they need it. Maybe he should find the article and let the boss know. He knows that if he suggests it to anyone else he’ll just get some good-natured ribbing for his efforts. Then again he’ll probably get that if anyone sees him talking to the boss about the beneficial properties of controlled sun exposure.

  
He swipes any remaining moisture from his eyes and heads back towards the front doors. He wonders if he should carry a mirror in his pocket for occasions like these, then he’d be able to check the state of his features before heading back in to face the team. Probably best not to though; he doesn’t need that rumour flying around the station, there’s already too much going round about his team, and a couple of them are referring to him. Bloody coppers. They’re a nosey bunch, himself included, but that’s just part of the job.

  
Kent keeps his head down as he walks through the front doors, watching out of the corner of his eye for signs that anyone is paying undue attention to him. Some people – see Sergeant Miles – are able to deflect attention away from them by acting like they own the place, but Kent has never been good at that sort of bravado, so he employs the tactic of keeping a low profile and blending into his surroundings as much as possible.

  
There’s no hope of that working once he gets into the incident room though. As soon as he gets through the door Riley’s turning towards him, pulling a sympathetic face when she catches his eye. They must still be red. Damn his complexion. At least Riley’s acknowledging him; things had been a bit touch and go between them since the whole Mansell on the roof scenario (as he called it). For a couple of weeks following that he thought that she’d never smile at him again. Not that he didn’t deserve it, with hindsight it was a shitty move, from both a personal and professional point of view. They had been dark times for all of them, interspersed by the light of catching the Abrahamians, only to have it, and them, snatched away.

  
He had gone for that drink with Chandler though, in the end. Surprisingly it had been the DI that had asked, Kent had been too wary of jinxing the fragile peace they’d managed to claw back for themselves.

  
The young DC looks up from where he’s stood, just finishing putting his coat on the back of his chair. From the way the DI’s cup was positioned on his desk it looked like he had run out of green tea, and Kent fancied a cuppa himself, so he’d better make one for the boss too. It was only polite. He glances over to where Miles is sat.

  
“Cup of tea Serge?” he asks, not bothering to try and disguise the roughness in his voice. Miles had probably known he would be going out for a cry before Kent himself did. Luckily the older man doesn’t mention it.

  
“Yes please, lad.” He replies, not lifting his head up.

  
“Riley?” Kent asks.

  
“Ooh, yes please, love. I’m gasping.”

  
Kent smiles, moving over to where the kettle is. He busies himself while the kettle boils; selecting the mugs, making sure the boss’ is extra clean, putting the tea bags in, anything to keep his mind from wandering back to the case. When it boils he pours the water into the DI’s cup first: green tea takes the longest to brew. He leaves Miles' and his own tea bags in a little longer than Riley’s, adding milk and two sugars to the other DC’s before carrying it over to her desk.

  
“Thanks, sweetie.” She says, offering him a brief, warm smile. He returns it as best he can and heads back over to collect Miles' cup. Just a drop of milk in that one.

  
“Here you are Skip.” He says, putting the mug down carefully in what seems the only clear spot on the desk.

  
“Thanks.” The Sergeant mutters, still absorbed in whatever he’s doing. Kent doesn’t really want to ask.

  
He goes back to his own tea, taking the bag out but holding off with the milk, he’s still got to take the boss’ tea to him, and he doesn’t want his own getting cold and slimy before he gets a chance to drink it. He carefully removes the green teabag with a spoon, pressing it against the side of the mug before lifting it out to discard of it. The DI likes it well brewed, and Kent prides himself on getting these things right. Not that he has to make the tea, he’s been in this particular team longer than Mansell and Riley, since the Ripper, but he likes to feel useful, especially at times like this.

  
He picks up the spotless mug and heads over to the small office. He raps on the door, waiting for the quiet ‘come in’ before entering.

  
“Tea, sir.” He says, picking up the empty mug from the coaster and replacing it with the freshly brewed one.

  
The DI looks up at him, gracing him with that little half smile that never fails to make Kent’s heart race a little like a school kid with a crush. He tries to shove the thought away; it’s a little too close for comfort.

  
“Thank you, Kent.” He says, picking up the mug to take a sip of the dark liquid inside.

  
“It’s no trouble, sir.” Kent replies. He takes a moment to study the DI’s face. He looks worn out, but that’s not surprising; they all do. He knows that out of all of them the boss feels it most though. Knows that each death, each ‘failure’ eats away at him. Kent wonders how many times Chandler has washed his hands today, if he’s changed his shirt more than once, if he’s thought about the bottle of scotch that Kent knows is stored in the bottom draw of his desk.

  
The DC takes note of the shadows under the Inspector’s eyes, more purple than usual, thrown into stark relief against the pale skin, with lines on the forehead and around the eyes that are more prominent than usual, hinting that the boss is nursing a headache. Kent follows the tense line of Chandler’s neck down to his shoulders; weighed down with care. He carries on along the arms to the boss’ hands, strong and capable, as they wrap around the mug. There’s the slightest tremor to them which betrays the feelings of their owner, speaks of how long they’ve all been awake. His careful study is interrupted by the Chandler clearing his throat.

  
“Is everything alright Detective?” the DI asks, placing the mug down to rub at his temples, though the tiger balm which usually aids this is unusually absent.

  
“Yes, sir.” Kent says, even though he knows that the boss will have picked up on the redness that he’s certain still surrounds his eyes, and mars his sclera. Then again he’s not the only one with bloodshot eyes by the looks of it, although he seriously doubts that Chandler’s affliction has been caused by tears.

  
“I’ll have that report on the vics family and friends on your desk soon, sir.” He adds, deflecting the conversation from the track that it may have taken had they remained in silence for any longer. He doesn’t really feel like being called out on his little white lie at this particular moment in time. He acknowledges the boss’ nod with one of his own, and heads back into the incident room to collect his own tea: he’ll probably need to add some more water to it to heat it up.

  
Unfortunately for him and his tea Mansell decides to enter the room, and demands his own cup.

  
“Can’t you make your own bloody tea?” Kent mutters as he switches the kettle back on.

  
“Course I can,” Mansell replies, “but why would I bother when I’ve got you to make it for me.” The man chuckles at his own little joke; Kent rolls his eyes, and begrudgingly gets out another mug and adds a tea bag to it. He’s half tempted to dump a load of sugar and milk in the mug, despite knowing full well that Mansell likes his tea black, and thinks that anyone who has it differently is ‘a pansy, begging your pardon, Serge’. Kent wants to avoid an argument though, so he just pours the newly re-boiled water into the mug and puts it on Mansell’s desk, far enough away from the man’s unruly arms; more than one mug had been lost that way. Kent finally adds milk to his own tea, and goes back to his desk to get on with the report that he’d promised the boss.

  
They’re all desperately searching for a connection between their victims, other than the fact that they’re all of a similar age, build, and other generally useless identifiers. Gary Hoxton, the first victim, stares up at Kent from the picture he’s just picked up. It’s one he’s looked at what seems like a hundred times during the course of the week, and it doesn’t look as if it’s going to trigger any ‘Eureka!’ moments now. Gary had been 22, well liked by his flatmates, and his fellow students on his Biomedical Sciences Masters course at Queen Mary. No known enemies either; another thing that seems to link all the victims. In contrast to Gary, Jason Sewell had never been to University; he’d left education at 16 to become an apprentice joiner. Jason had a good client base, with no complaints as far as the team could find. He’d been the second victim, found two streets away from his home by the paperboy just after 6am.

  
The final victim, the one who had crawled under Kent’s skin and into his head, was Steven Cooke, 21. He’d just finished his BA in Architecture at London Met, and his tutors had said he was set for greatness, a real prodigy. He’d been in a band too; Kent had seen a couple of their gigs, the name had something to do with foxes, but he couldn’t quite remember it despite having written the name down somewhere. The poor lad had been heading home from a night of celebration when he’d been taken. The owner of a local Indian restaurant had been unfortunate enough to discover him in the rubbish skip behind his property when he came in to open up for the day.

  
In fact all of the victims so far had been found in, or next to places of refuse disposal, which had caused Buchan to suggest that their killer viewed his targets as nothing more than rubbish themselves. Sadly it didn’t give them anything to go on; it wasn’t as if they could post policemen next to every bin in Whitechapel and hope that one of them would come across someone disposing of a body. Actually, they might catch some killers that way, but they had neither the resources nor the inclination.

  
All the blokes seemed perfectly ordinary to Kent. Normal lads going about their everyday lives until they’d been unlucky enough to be targeted by one of Whitechapel’s resident lunatics. They’d been practically crawling out of the woodwork these past four years. Maybe there was something in Crispin Wingfield’s theory, which had been taken up by Ed and Miles – an unlikely pair of bedfellows if ever there was one, that there was a provocateur in London. An entity that incited people to do evil acts in Whitechapel. Evil acts which often ended up landing at their door. He’s seen Ed’s map, the sites that Wingfield had been watching. He knew they all surrounded the Met, surrounded them. No one else’s team has had such a persistent streak of bad luck in terms of losing their killers to suicide, assassination, and accidental deaths.

  
Kent let out a long, slow, breath, trying to relieve some of the stress that he could feel building up. The relief that sometimes came from having a good cry never lasted long enough for his liking; it hardly made it worth the hassle. He turns back to the files that are carefully laid out on his desk, checks the list of people he still needs to contact, though they’ve pretty much exhausted the lists for the first two victims. Still he’s got a couple of Jason’s friends he still needs to contact, and then he can put that list to rest and concentrate on finding out more about Steven and any connections he may have to the other victims.

  
***

  
By end of shift everyone is looking pale and drawn but there’s an edge of relief to their faces; no more bodies have been found as of yet so they’re all allowed to go home until tomorrow, unless anything else gets called in that is. Kent is pleased on behalf of Miles and Riley that they get to head home for a bit, they’ve both got partners to see, kids to spend time with, people who miss them whilst they’re away. Even Mansell has Erica, although these days Kent tries to think about that a little as is possible: he’s worried that if he dwells on it some of his more unsavoury characteristics might make a sudden return.

  
Kent has his flatmates to return to, if he feels like it, but he’d much rather stay here for a bit and focus on the case while it’s quiet. It probably won’t do him or the case any good; it’s not as if light bulb moments tend to occur when you’re running a day behind in terms of sleep. He can always catch a catnap at his desk if he has to. Besides, he knows that Chandler doesn’t have flatmates, or a partner and kids to go home to, just an empty flat, and Kent knows all too well how the mind manages to get stuck in dark thoughts and have a bit of a wallow in them when it’s left alone for too long.

  
Kent pulls his phone out; he’d better send a text to his flatmates now that he’s decided he’s staying at the station. He sends a generic one to David, who’s probably still at work himself, and a more personal one to Ellie; she’ll be heading home by this time, she likes to go to work earlier so she can get out before the rush hits, one of the benefits of a job with flexi time. He lets her know he’ll be back late, if at all, and that yes he will remember to eat something. She means well, he knows that, but sometimes it’s like living with his mum.

  
Just as he presses send on the phone, Mansell decides it would be a good idea to flick his ear in passing. Kent turns his head to glare at his partner; he’s thankful that they’ve more or less slipped back into the casual relationship they had before Mansell starting dating his sister, but he could do without the physical reminders.

  
“Bugger off, Mansell.” He says, rubbing his ear; it had been a rather vicious flick.

  
Mansell laughs, “I’m off mate, Erica’s expecting me, and you know what happens if you keep her waiting.”

  
Kent rolls his eyes, although he does indeed know that Erica can get a bit scary when she’s impatient.

  
“Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow.” He replies, trying his best to ignore the slight leer on Mansell’s face. It’s a look that generally precedes some sort of smutty comment.

  
“Alright mate, don’t get up to any funny business while I’m away.” Mansell says, the leer becoming more pronounced. That’s another thing Kent could do without, the friendly ‘banter’ that was part and parcel of every relationship that Mansell had.

  
“Oi, leave the poor lamb alone.” Riley says, coming to stand next to Kent’s chair. “If he wants some alone time with the boss, who are we to judge?” she adds, a laugh hidden in her voice.

  
“Don’t you have kids to head home to?” Kent asks, “Places to be, that sort of thing?”

  
“Of course I do,” Riley says, “but you’re so easy to wind up I just couldn’t contain myself.”

  
“Very funny.” Kent mutters, “Go home and leave me to my paperwork.” He softens the retort with a huff of breath and a small smile.

  
“Well I know when I’m not wanted.” says Mansell, throwing Riley and Kent a smirk before strolling from the room. Riley laughs out loud at that.

  
“No you bloody don’t!” she shouts after him. Still smiling she gives Kent’s shoulder a brief squeeze and then heads out into the corridor. “Bye, Skip! Bye, boss.” she calls over her shoulder as she leaves.

  
That just leaves Kent and Miles in the room, Chandler’s still there of course, he’s just shut away in his office, probably hasn’t even notice that everyone’s heading home.

  
“Have you not got a home to go to, kid?” Miles has got up from his desk whilst Kent wasn’t looking; he hopes to whatever God that’s listening that he hadn’t been staring at the boss’ door like a grade A twit. He thinks he might have been judging from the look on Miles' face.

  
“I’m alright Serge.” he replies, “I was going to stay here for a bit, see if anything jumps out at me when I’ve not got Mansell pulling faces at me.”

  
Miles nods, as if he can’t see through Kent’s transparent attempt at an excuse to stay behind and keep an eye on Chandler. Kent can’t help it, it’s second nature by this point; why should he bother going home when he knows he can be of more use here? It’s not even got anything to do with the boss, not really. At least that’s what he likes to tell himself.

  
“Alright then, but I don’t want you here all night, go home and get some sleep.” Miles says, “Try to make sure that that idiot gets some as well.” He adds, nodding towards the closed door of Chandler’s office. They both know there’s not much chance of that happening, just as the Sergeant knows that Kent probably won’t go home unless Chandler does, preferring to offer some solidarity by being utterly pig-headed and refusing to get any rest, never mind the fact that it leaves both of them a little closer to non-functional.

  
Kent can practically see the thoughts running behind Miles' eyes, but he doesn’t confirm or deny them, just smiles and asks Miles to say ‘Hi’ to Judy and the kids for him. (They’d grown on him, despite his first rather awkward encounter with young Sarah at the Christening party.)

  
“Will do.” Miles assures him. “Liam and James are still in awe of your, and I quote, ‘mad guitar skills’, from the last time you were round.”

  
Kent hangs his head, they’d gone out to the pub about a week ago (the team that is) and Kent had got a bit tipsy. So much so that when they headed back to Miles’ for a couple of extra drinks at the Sergeant’s behest he’d decided it would be a great idea to demonstrate his guitar playing on James’ instrument, which had been propped up in a corner of the living room.

  
“Well I’m glad someone remembers the occasion favourably.” He murmurs, shaking his head at his own antics. Miles chuckles, slapping him on the back before heading to knock on the door that separates Chandler’s office from the rest of the incident room. Kent watches as he opens the door.

  
“I’m off boss.” Miles says, “You should think about heading home yourself.”

  
Chandler looks up from where he’s sat. “I’ll just stay for another hour or so.” The DI says, and Kent watches at Miles rolls his eyes.

  
“Make sure you do.” the Sergeant says, “This one won’t go home unless you do and it’s no good if you both end up falling asleep on the job tomorrow.”

  
Kent resists the urge to sigh, he should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to get away with staying without Miles making some sort of subtle remark about it, or not so subtle, as the case may be.

  
Chandler swivels his head and catches Kent’s eye just as the young DC is trying to avoid it. Kent offers him a grimace and a shrug; the boss knows he usually stays behind after everyone is gone, just because Miles says that it’s because of him, doesn’t mean Chandler necessarily has to believe it. Chandler’s brow furrows in response, like he’s not quite sure what to make of Kent, or Miles’ reasoning.

  
“I’m sure we’ll be fine Miles.” The DI says, turning back to face his Sergeant.

  
“Yeah, well, can’t say I didn’t bloody try.” Miles mutters, leaving the door to Chandler’s office open as he walks back to his desk to pick up his coat and keys. “See you both tomorrow.” He says as he exits the incident room.

  
Miles’ departure leaves a slightly uncomfortable silence in its’ wake. Kent isn’t sure if he should get up and close the door to Chandler’s office, or whether the DI will do it himself, or if he wants it kept open now that there’s not as much noise as there usually is in the office. Maybe he should offer to make the boss another cup of tea; they’ll need it if they’re both staying. Kent’s contemplating getting up and just making one anyway when his train of thought is derailed.

  
“Kent, a word, please?” comes the request from Chandler’s office. Kent swallows nervously before getting up out of his chair and walking to stand just outside door that divides the incident room.

  
“Yes, sir?” he asks, not quite daring to meet Chandler’s eye, lest he’s done something that’s made the boss uncomfortable. He can’t quite bear to look up and see the possible stress and disapproval in his superior’s face.

  
“Would you come in please, I’m not going to bite.”

  
Kent does look up at that. The boss seems to be wearing a half-smile, half-smirk on his face, as if pleased with his own little joke. Kent smiles in return, a bit sheepish as he steps further into the office.

  
“Sorry, sir.” he mumbles.

  
“You don’t have to stay behind you know.” Chandler says after a short pause.

  
“And neither do you, sir.” Kent replies, emboldened by the DI’s earlier humour.

  
Chandler sighs.

  
“I can’t go home and sit in an empty flat Kent, not while there’s a case on, and we’re no nearer to catching the killer than we were after the first victim.”

  
“You’ll think of something, sir.” Kent assures him. “You haven’t failed us yet.” He hopes that his tone of voice doesn’t betray all of the feeling behind his unshakeable trust in the man sat in front of him. He thinks a bit of it might leak through though, as Chandler looks slightly disbelieving, as he always does when there’s any mention of the fact that the team have faith in him. That anyone has faith in him. That, and Kent thinks that the boss still believes that he has to prove himself to them, that he still has to fight to be accepted as part of the team, as their leader.

  
“I wouldn’t quite say that.” DI Chandler murmurs, confirming Kent’s thoughts.

  
“I’m sure Miles has told you before sir, but no one else is as good as solving cases as you are. No one picks up the details like you do.”

  
“He may have mentioned it a couple of times.” Chandler concedes.

  
“Well there you are then, sir.” Kent says softly. There’s another lull in the conversation, both of them wrapped up inside their own heads.

  
“I don’t suppose -” the DI begins, “I don’t suppose you’d like to keep me company at home before you head back yourself? Just for a little while.”

  
Kent has to fight to keep his mouth from gaping open slightly.

  
“Of, of course not, sir.” he stammers. If he does, it will only be the second time he’s entered Chandler’s home, the first being after they finally went for that drink, and even then it was only for a couple of minutes; Chandler had promised to lend him a book, and had said that he might as well collect it.

  
Also, if Chandler is inviting him home, without the influence of alcohol, or the more relaxed setting of a casual outing, then the man must really be in need of a distraction. Or possibly the lack of sleep is addling his mind, in which case, Kent probably shouldn’t be taking advantage of the offer to spend time with Chandler outside of the office.  
“I’ve heard that it helps to talk about things, sometimes.” Chandler says, repeating words from a conversation they’d had some weeks ago.

  
Kent makes an assenting noise in the back of his throat.

  
“Good advice that, sir.” he says with a slight smile. He gets one in response from the DI, but there’s still too much tension in the boss’ shoulder’s for it to really ease any of Kent’s concern. “I’ll get my coat, sir.”

  
As he leaves the small office he notices that the incident room could do with a tidy, and resigns himself to the fact that he’ll have to have a pick up before they leave because otherwise Chandler will do it, and then he’ll probably see something else that needs doing, and then Kent will never convince him to go home and get some rest. He walks over to the rubbish bin and quickly disposes of the few bits of detritus that have collected over the long shift. He’s just putting his coat on when he hears Chandler closing the door to his office.

  
“I’m ready to leave when you are, sir.” he says.

  
Chandler nods before walking towards the door; Kent follows in his wake, switching the light off as they leave.

  
They make their way out of the building and towards the car park, it’s not that late, only 10 or 15 minutes after Miles left them, and there’s still a reasonable number of staff milling around the station. Kent tries not to speculate on what people might be thinking, but his thoughts range wildly from the hope that most people will ignore them to the idea that someone will guess he’s going round to his superior’s house and that the gossip will have gone twice round the station and found its way to Commander Anderson by morning.

  
When they reach the car park, Kent veers off towards his moped, after letting Chandler know that he’ll follow him back. He waits for the DI’s car to start before starting his own vehicle, trailing behind all the way to Chandler’s flat.

  
***

  
The flat is still and silent (as one would expect of an empty flat) when they step through the door. Chandler gestures for Kent to hang his coat up while he locks the door, before shedding his own top layer, and placing it on the hook beside Kent’s. They stand in the hallway, both mute apart from their breaths until Chandler breaks the quiet.  
“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks.

  
“Um, yes, thank you, sir, I could make it if you like?” Kent replies, tripping over his words a little. He never did really out-grow his childhood clumsiness.

  
Chandler looks a little taken aback, and Kent kicks himself, he’s not at work, and this is Chandler’s flat, he shouldn’t be imposing, asking to make a mess of what he knows will be a spotless kitchen. Luckily for Kent, Chandler recovers quickly, the slightly shocked look smoothing over into something more neutral.

  
“I invited you over, Kent, you shouldn’t be making the tea.” he says, moving out of the hallway.

  
Kent follows, a little warily, into the kitchen. As he had guessed, it’s immaculate, although not as cold as he’d expected. There’s a novelty salt and pepper set in the shape of policeman sat on the side; they seem a little out of place but they warm the room none the less.

  
“They were a gift from Miles.” Chandler says. He’d obviously caught Kent eyeing the shakers.

  
“I like them, sir.” Kent says, reaching out to touch the little figurines, but stopping himself just before he gets there. Luckily Chandler is too preoccupied with the tea things to notice.

  
“Perhaps we could forgo the ‘sir’ bit, whilst we’re not at work?” Chandler requests.

  
Ah. Not that preoccupied then.

  
Sorry s-, sorry, force of habit.” Kent says apologetically. He’s no idea what he’s supposed to call Chandler if not sir, he doesn’t remember using any sort of titles for him when they’d been at the pub, but then again he’s pretty sure he’s never heard anyone call the boss by his first name except for Ed, and perhaps Judy. Miles called him all sorts of names, Mansell generally referred to him as the boss, as did Riley. Also if he’s not supposed to call the DI ‘sir’ out of work, should Kent invite him to use Emerson instead of his surname? He laments the fact that no one’s written a handbook on how to talk to your boss (who you may be slightly in love with) outside of work. Or maybe someone has written it, and Kent just hasn’t been lucky enough to come across it. You’d think if there was one Mansell would have pointed it out by now, it’s the kind of thing he’d find out about, just to have more material to tease Kent with.

  
Kent’s so immersed in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice that the kettle had boiled until a warm cup of tea is being placed in his hand. He looks down at the brown liquid, which happens to be the perfect colour. He doesn’t dwell on what it means that Chandler knows how he likes his tea.

  
“Thank you.” he says, taking a small sip. It tastes just right too.

  
“Would you like to sit down?” Chandler asks, indicating the table and chairs that sits at one end of the room.

  
“Oh, yes, err, thank you.” Kent says, walking over and pulling one of the chairs out. He places his cup on a handy coaster before he sits down, and watches as Chandler does the same. They sit quietly for a couple of minutes, occasionally sipping mouthfuls of tea. Kent knows that he should probably say something, the boss had mentioned something about talking earlier, but he doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been good at these sorts of things, that’s always been Erica’s forte. Mostly he’s used to being talked at, letting people work through their problems by getting everything out in the open and sorting through it themselves, with very little input from his end. He’s saved the trouble of having to come up with anything as Chandler decides to start the conversation.

  
“I keep thinking that I must have missed something.”

  
Kent can only assume that he’s referring to the case, this, at least, is familiar ground.

  
“I don’t think you have, si-, I don’t think so. There’s just not much to go on.” Kent replies. He wishes he had words of comfort to offer, but he knows that they would be empty in this situation. He can’t promise that it’s all going to be alright when he doesn’t know that for sure.

  
“There must be something, somewhere.” Chandler says, “I just haven’t seen it yet.”

  
Kent responds with a small, non-committal noise. Even Ed hadn’t been able to find much in terms of history for this case. Of course, there were plenty of murders involving mutilation, plenty where the method of death is strangulation. There are numerous cases where organs have been removed as well, but they’re not related. Buchan had suggested the idea of ‘muti murders, also known as ‘medicine murders’. These cases, which occur mainly in southern Africa, involve murders taking place in order to harvest body parts for traditional black magic. He’d cited the ‘Kei Ripper’ murders of 2008 that took place in South Africa. Some people believed that if the organs were taken from live victims then this would serve to make the medicine or ‘muti’ stronger. The link however, was tenuous at best. The killer had only taken the livers of the victims, something which would be unusual if the killer wanted to use body parts for black magic, or make a profit by selling them on the black market.

  
“I think you might be over thinking it.” Kent suggests, finishing the last of his tea. He looks over at Chandler and sees that his cup is also empty. “Would you like me to wash the cups?” he asks. It takes the other man a moment to reply.

  
“Oh, that’s alright, thank you, I’ll get them.” Chandler says, moving to get up from his chair.

  
“It wouldn’t be any trouble.” Kent says, “After all, you made the tea, the least I can do is clean up.”

  
“If you’re sure.” Chandler replies, handing Kent the cup. The younger man heads over to the sink, washing the cups out thoroughly before drying them with the tea towel he sees folded over a draw handle, and then returning everything to its proper place. He half expects Chandler to be watching him, making sure he’s put everything back where it came from, but as he turns he finds Chandler staring at the whorls in the wooden table top, as if they hold the answer to the case. He makes his way back to the table, unsure of whether or not he should sit down again, or whether he should leave. Chandler must notice him hovering as he says;

  
“I’m sorry, you probably need to go home, have something to eat.”

  
To be perfectly honest Kent had completely forgotten about food but now that it’s been mentioned, his stomach decides to betray him, sounding out a low rumble, followed by an embarrassingly loud gurgling noise.

  
“Sorry.” He mutters, glaring down at his stomach, as if it was his body’s fault that he hadn’t fed it.

  
“No, no, it’s my fault for keeping you.” Chandler insists.

  
“You need to eat as well.” Kent reminds the older man gently. Chandler looks up.

  
“Yes, I suppose I do.” He admits, with a self-deprecating smile.

  
“We could get something, take-out I mean, I don’t -, I don’t have to be anywhere.” Kent’s not sure if he’s crossed a line by saying that, but he’s not really sure what line he’s supposed to be toeing, so if he has it can’t be helped.

  
“I’m afraid I’m a bit particular about takeaways.” Chandler confesses, as if being a bit fussy about where your food comes from is a crime. Kent’s been in enough dodgy kebab shops to know that a bit of wariness about food preparation is practically a life-saving skill in some situations.

  
“That’s fine, you can pick, if you like. Or I could have a go at cooking?” Kent’s pretty sure that whatever line he was trying to avoid crossing, he’s just stepped over it. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him today. Probably the lack of sleep. Possibly the fact that he’s stood in Chandler’s flat, that Chandler invited him back to his flat.  
“You cook?” Chandler asks, seeming surprised.

  
“You don’t have to look so shocked.” Kent remarks, although he injects some warmth into his voice to take any possible sting out of the words. “I do have to eat sometimes.”

  
“I didn’t mean to offend.” Chandler says, his smile assuring Kent that no sting was felt. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

  
Kent shrugs. “My mum taught me. Erica didn’t want to learn, and mum had to pass her skills onto someone. What about you, do you cook?” He’s getting better at stopping himself from tagging ‘sir’ onto the end of every sentence.

  
“When I have to.” Chandler says. “I learnt out of necessity.” There’s a tone to his voice which suggests that the ‘necessity’ was to do with something a bit more serious than going off to uni and having to fend for himself. Kent sifts through his memories, trying to remember if Miles had mentioned anything about Chandler’s early life at any point. He thinks there was a vague mention of a father, and a dislike for the drownings. Something to do with Mediums as well. He decides that it would be best not to ask, it’s not a conversation to have after an incredible trying week, maybe it’s a conversation they’ll never have, but Kent stores the information in his head for future reference, just in case.

  
“I can go back to mine if you want a bit of peace, sir.” Kent offers, slipping the title in at the end as if it will serve as a buffer to the rejection that he’s expecting.

  
Chandler grimaces at the slip, further convincing Kent that he should be ready at a moment’s notice to go and get his coat.

  
“I wouldn’t mind if you would like to stay for dinner, if you can spare the time, that is.” Is the response Kent gets, to his surprise.

  
“Err, yeah, that would be fine, sir.”

  
“On one condition,” Chandler says, “You stop calling me ‘sir’ in my own home.”

  
***

  
They end up getting a Chinese from a little place about five minutes away. Chandler says that he’d driven past it one night after finishing up a case and that the place had looked so inviting he’d gone into have a look. When Kent raises an eyebrow, Chandler admits he’s not usually one for spontaneity, but he does have his moments. The takeaway is a bit more expensive that what Kent is used to, but he insists on paying for his own half, otherwise the whole evening would seem like a date, and although he’d like it to be, it’s really not. At least he thinks it isn’t. What it is, is two colleagues, he’d like to think two friends, spending some time together after a difficult week, offering each other some support.

  
Dinner passes by without incident; it’s enjoyable, but Kent can tell that the boss is on edge still, waiting for a call, and Kent himself is half-waiting for the ring of a phone to pull them from their evening. It gets to just after nine though, and Chandler’s phone still hasn’t rung. (It had beeped when Miles had text him asking if he’d gone home yet, but that’s not the kind of contact they need to worry about.)

  
Kent has thankfully managed to avoid calling Chandler ‘sir’ since his earlier lapse, and they’ve fallen into a mostly comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional comment, such as Kent’s ‘This is good.’, or the boss’ ‘Please could you pass the sweet chilli sauce.’, and the sounds of two people eating. After dinner Kent helps clean up, although Chandler insists on doing the washing up this time. (It’s a bit domestic, made all the more strange by the fact that they’re both quite comfortable with it.)

  
When the clock ticks round to ten o’clock, Kent knows that he should really be heading back to his flat. He feels a bit guilty about all the paperwork he’d meant to get done at the office before the unexpected, but welcome invitation from Chandler. He knows that he’ll be more productive if he manages to get some sleep though. There’s an empty cup of tea sat in front of him that he’s been toying with for the last 15 minutes, loathe to leave, even though he’s aware that he’s got to do it at some point. He gets up to wash it out in the sink, leaving Chandler’s where it is as it’s still half full, and green tea reheats much better than his Earl Grey. He watches out of the corner of his eye as the DI’s head tracks his movement across the room, as if observing an animal in an unfamiliar habitat. That’s how Kent feels at least, although he’s become more familiar with the space by degrees as the evening’s worn on. He now knows where Chandler keeps his cups, which draw he keeps the napkins in, things he never expected to know, but enjoys knowing all the same. He drags drying the cup out for as long as he dares before finally putting away in the cupboard above the sink. He makes his way back over to the table, pausing for a moment next to the boss.

  
“I’d best be off, my flatmates will be wondering where I’ve got off to.” Kent says. They won’t actually; they’re probably not expecting him back after the text he’d sent earlier whilst at the office, he needs something to say though to cover up the fact he’d rather stay here in the warmth of Chandler’s kitchen.

  
“Hmm?” Chandler says, starting a little at the sound of Kent’s voice. “Oh, yes, of course.” The older man nods and brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Kent wants to put a hand on his shoulder, but even though he thinks of them as friends, he knows the boss isn’t the greatest fan of physical contact when he hasn’t initiated it himself. Still, it’s a struggle not to reach out, to offer whatever comfort he can. Sometimes you just need to remind yourself that you’re not alone.

  
“Thank you for inviting me round.” Kent says, and suddenly he feels like he’s 12 again, thanking a friend’s mum for having him round for tea, which is not really how he’d wanted to come across. Chandler doesn’t seem to mind though.

  
“Thank you for providing me with some company.” The DI replies with a small upturn of one side of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but almost. Kent returns it with a full smile of his own.

  
“It’s no trouble.” he says.

  
“I’ll see you out.” Chandler offers, moving his chair back and sliding out gracefully from where he’d been sat before pushing the chair back under the table, all in one smooth movement. Kent can only wish he was that graceful, but he’s like a newborn foal compared to Chandler. He doesn’t know what that makes Mansell, possibly a drunk newborn foal. He shakes his head at the thought and follows Chandler out into the hallway, blinking against the light that Chandler had switched on, much brighter than that of the kitchen.

  
Kent grabs his coat from the line of hooks running across the wall, and shrugs it on.

  
“Thanks for the tea.” he says, unsure of how to best phrase his goodbye.

  
“It’s no problem.” Chandler says quietly.

  
Kent’s breath catches in his throat as Chandler lifts a hand and places it on the side of his arm.

  
“Maybe we could do it again sometime.” the DI adds. After a couple of seconds Kent finally manages to wake his brain up enough to form words.

  
“I’d love to.” it’s becoming sort of a theme between them, a common phrase. “Maybe next time, you can come round to mine.” he says, the hand on his arm lending him courage, like a couple of pints; he’s got the same light-headed feeling as well.

  
“I’d love to.” Chandler repeats. Kent doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of those words, not when they’re said like they’re words that are only meant to be heard by the two of them. He places a hand over that of the older man’s and squeezes briefly.

  
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Kent says, letting go of Chandler’s hand reluctantly. The boss’ own hand moves slowly away from Kent’s arm, fingers trailing slightly.  
Chandler just nods in response, and leans round Kent to open the door for him.

  
“Goodbye.” Kent says with a soft smile as he exits the flat. Chandler’s answering ‘Goodbye, Kent.’, and the lingering touch of a phantom hand on his arm warm him as he climbs aboard his moped and heads out into the cool London streets.

  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there it is, first chapter done, I hope it hasn’t turned out too badly. Let me know what you think!
> 
> (Information about the 'Kei Ripper' and 'muti' murders found here - http://altereddimensions.net/2013/african-muti-medicine-murders-hospitals-sell-body-parts-murderers-harvest-organs-from-live-victims-witch-doctors-black-magic-spells)
> 
> (Next chapter will be up on the 15th, just need to edit it!)


	2. Chapter 2

***

The call that Kent had half been expecting to wake him in the night came through as he was making a cup of tea to go with his toast the next morning. He sighed softly, letting the breath drain out of his lungs, before inhaling and cutting off the incessant ringing.

"DC Kent speaking."

"We've got another one." says Miles' voice from the other end of the line, the resigned tone hinting that it's not a pretty sight wherever he's stood.

"Where abouts?" Kent asks, stirring his tea as Miles reels off the address.

"Alright skip, I'll be there as soon as I can." he says, taking a quick sip of the beverage that he'll never get to finish, he'd better pick up coffee on the way to the scene anyway; there probably won't be much for him to do, and lord knows that everyone will be needing a pick-me-up.

"You'd better." says Miles into his ear, "His nibs is going spare already and it's only half six."

Kent registers the line going dead before he has a chance to process Miles' words. Why had he mentioned that to Kent? It's not as if he can bloody do anything. He's been trying to help a bit more lately but dealing with the boss when he's having a bit of a wobble has generally been Miles' forte.

Running a hand through his hair, Kent grabs a piece of kitchen roll and shoves his piece of toast in it. He'll have to try and eat it on the way to the coffee shop. (Being a copper means you get to know all sorts of random things, like the nearest place that does coffee in every area, just in case there's a crime scene and the team is in need of a hot drink).

Speaking of hot, it's already shaping up to be a bit of a scorcher, if the sun streaming through the windows is anything to go by. Then again, it's London, and the weather can change its mind without so much as a by-your-leave.

Just as he's throwing his jacket on, trying not to cover it in crumbs, he spots Ellie coming down the stairs.

"Everything alright?" she asks, looking a bit concerned. He must have his 'I've just got called in to look at a murder' face on.

"There's been another one." he tells her. Ellie frowns. Technically he's not supposed to talk to anyone about the active cases they've got going on, or half the closed ones for that matter, but as long as he doesn't over share on the details he reckons it's alright. Besides, he'd go mad if he didn't talk to someone outside the office about what was going on. He doesn't like to mention the cases to his mum – she'd not been keen on the idea of him being a policeman in the first place – and him and Erica, although still close, aren't quite back to where they were before she started going out with Mansell. Mansell probably tells her everything anyway now he thinks about it.

"Sorry about that." Ellie says. One thing he'd noticed they had in common right from the start was that they're always apologising for anything and everything.

Kent shrugs.

"I better be off." he says, "Have a good day at work, yeah?"

"I will, thanks." Ellie replies. She avoids telling him to have a good day too when there's a case on.

Kent smiles and steps out of the flat; Ellie will close and lock the door for him. He checks his watch; he can probably make it to the scene in ten minutes if the traffic isn't too bad, but it'll be more like 20 if he stops off for coffee. He wouldn't have bothered if it had just been for him, but everyone will whinge if he turns up without it; he doubts any of them got much shut eye. He'd been half awake for most of the night, on edge, waiting in the dark for his phone to ring and tell him another poor sod's been murdered.

Thankfully the drive is short, and the queue in the coffee shop isn't too terrible either. He makes it to the scene quarter of an hour from the time he left his flat, something he considers a job well done.

Kent's first impression of the crime scene is that it smells. Not a slight smell either, a full-on, olfactory attack. The temperature is already climbing, which hasn't helped things, but the real problem is that the alley where the body lies seems to be a dump site for all kinds of human waste. Some of it biological. He wrinkles his nose and tries his best not to think about it, but the stench keeps crashing steadily against his sense of smell, demanding to be heard. No wonder Chandler had been going spare.

He picks his way gingerly around the various bags and piles of rubbish, trying to avoid the waste that's spilled out of them and flowed onto the concrete. He approaches Riley and shares with her a commiserating look before handing her a cup of coffee.

"Cheers." she says, immediately taking a sip.

Kent nods towards the tent where he knows Chandler and Miles will be stood with Dr. Llewellyn.

"Same as the last lot?" he asks, pulling his cappuccino from the cardboard carrier and wafting it under his nose. It doesn't do anything to drown the rest of the smells around him.

"I think so." Riley replies, "The skipper said something about the liver but I didn't really catch it."

Kent hums.

"What about witnesses?"

"Just the one, the poor lad who found the body." Riley informs him, jerking her head towards a figure at the mouth of the alley. "I told him I'd give him five minutes to have a bit of a breather, I'm just about to go interview him, unless you want to?" she says, tagging a hopeful inflection on the end.

"Nah, you're alright thanks." Kent says. "You're better at that sort of thing than I am."

Riley tuts, and throws him a disparaging glance.

"Don't be daft." she says, ruffling his hair. Kent thinks that it's far too early for this sort of behaviour, especially when there's a body about 12 feet away from them, but he doesn't say that to Meg.

He watches as she walks off towards the young man who's leaning against the wall of the alley where it meets the street. The lad straightens up a little as Meg approaches and surreptitiously wipes at his eyes. Kent wonders if he knows the victim. It would make their lives slightly easier if someone could identify the dead from the get go, but they're rarely that lucky.

Kent meanders towards the tent, contemplating where Mansell could be. He's just about to pull his phone out of his pocket to send his partner a text when the man himself appears, his usual swagger falling away as he walks further into the alley. The smell must have hit him.

"Speak of the devil." Kent says as Mansell comes within hearing distance. "I was just wondering where the hell you were."

"Aww, did you miss me, mate?" Mansell jokes, the humour dulled slightly by the situation, and the fact that Mansell is pulling a god awful face in response to the smell. Kent thought he looked odd sometimes but this face took the biscuit.

"Do you have to pull that face?" he asks, "I don't know how Erica puts up with you if you look as good as that most days."

"It's my natural wit and charm, ain't it?" Mansell replies. "Have you got my coffee there?" he adds, peering down at the drinks in Kent's hands. Kent holds out the carrier so that Mansell can lift his cup out.

He's just starting to believe that the odour of the scene is getting somehow worse when Chandler and Miles emerge from the tent. Miles practically snatches the two remaining drinks from the holder, which Kent retains. He could just chuck it towards the nearest rubbish bag and he doubts anyone would notice (or care) but he'd rather wait for a bin than add to the mess.

Chandler takes his own beverage (green tea, never anything with milk) without a word, looking pale.

"What have we got Serge?" Mansell asks.

"This one's had their liver taken out and just dumped by the body." Miles says, after taking a long draw from his cup. "Caroline says that the vic had liver disease."

"So the killer didn't want the organ?" Kent speculates.

"It's possible." Miles replies, "Still doesn't explain why they didn't take any of the extra body parts though."

"Excuse me." Chandler mutters, walking off towards the main street. He's got better with dealing with messy cases over the years, Kent knows, but he also knows that it still affects him, especially if there's more dirt than usual around, which is definitely the case here.

Kent follows the DI with his eyes; he's always drawn to him, no matter where they are or what they're doing. (And isn't that inconvenient considering he's supposed to be watching his surroundings, and not his superior). He wonders whether he should be following with his feet too, but then his eyes flick back to Miles, who's already looking at him a bit oddly. The Sergeant knows about Kent's feelings for Chandler, hell, half the bloody Met must know by this point, what with the rumour mill that's constantly grinding away. He resolves to stay put until later, when he'll try to catch Chandler on his own and ask if he's alright.

Miles continues relaying details of the crime as if their DI hadn't just walked off in the middle of a conversation.

"The doc says that the preliminary observation suggests that the body wasn't mutilated here, it was moved here, just like the others."

"What so the killer cuts this guy open, takes out his liver, and then thinks, 'I don't want this.' But instead of chucking it there and then he carries it along with the body to dump it here?" Mansell asks.

"Seems so." is Miles' reply, accompanied by a small shrug of his shoulders.

"Maybe the killer is using the livers for something." says Kent. It's a comment he made at the beginning of the investigation, and the only suggestions the team have come up with so far are that the murderer is either selling the organs, or eating them. That he's selling them doesn't really make much sense though; if the killer was after a profit, he would have taken all of the organs. Unless he's a liver specialist or something. If the killer is eating them, it would explain why only the liver was taken. Sort of anyway, seeing as the liver is one of the most commonly consumed types of offal.

"Well, one would hope that he's not just displaying them in his home." Miles says, the gruesome attempt at humour falling flat. "Anyway, Caroline says she'll have more for us later on, when they've got the results back from some of the tests."

Kent nods; there's nothing more to say really.

"Let's hope our witness will turn something up." Miles says, nodding to where Riley is stood talking to the individual in question, they'll have to take him into the station for a more formal interview, but it's best to try and get some of the facts as soon as possible. They'll have to check the CCTV for the area as well – there's nothing in the alley as far as Kent can see, but the killer must have transported the body here somehow.

When he turns back to look at Miles he finds the man has already headed off in the direction of the road. Kent turns instead to Mansell, who's got his phone out and appears to be texting. Kent rolls his eyes, he won't ask who it is; the answer is probably Erica and he doesn't want to think about the fact that Mansell probably spent the night over at her's or vice versa. He really doesn't want to think about it while he's running on coffee and half a piece of toast.

He leaves Mansell where he's stood; after all, the other constable knows his way back to the station.

As he rounds the corner out of the alleyway and onto the main stretch of pavement he nearly walks into Chandler, who's stood unnaturally still outside the window of an electronic repairs shop. He doesn't even seem to notice that Kent almost rammed into him. (And doesn't that phrase bring up some entirely inappropriate images). Kent locates the nearest bin and shoves the drinks holder in it, all whilst keeping an eye on his boss. The older man has discarded the plastic suit he was wearing when he came out of the tent; it's probably been handed off to one of the SOCOs for disposal.

"I think we're just about done, sir." Kent says as he approaches Chandler. The DI doesn't seem to have heard him, and Kent's just about to repeat his words when the other man nods sharply, finally breaking out of his statue-like stance. The memory of the night before, sits between them, underlining the unnaturalness of the tension that currently sits in both their postures.

"Riley's going to bring the lad who found the body back to the station, we'll need to check CCTV, and Dr. Llewellyn says she'll have some results for us later on, although I suppose you already know that ..." Kent trails off, as it seems none of his words are reaching Chandler, despite the fact that there's barely a metre between them. A simple stride.

"Sir?" Kent asks, daring to reach out and touch Chandler's arm with a wary hand. That startles the DI out of his trance.

"Do you have a tissue?" Are the words that come tumbling out of Chandler's mouth. They weren't the ones Kent was expecting, but they explain the older man's slightly wild eyes.

"Oh, of course." Kent says, fishing around in his jacket pocket for the packet he knows is there. He locates the small slip of plastic and pulls it out, before handing Chandler a fresh tissue.

He watches as the other man wipes frantically at his hands, though Kent can't see anything on them.

"I've got some hand sanitiser." Kent offers, already reaching back inside his pocket for the small bottle he's been carrying around since he noticed Miles offering a similar one to the boss on a number of previous occasions. He hands it over wordlessly, exchanging the bottle for the tissue. Two liberal applications later, Chandler places the bottle back in his hand, and offers him a slightly sheepish look. Kent wishes he could erase it, replace it with something which doesn't hold a hint of shame. He's read about obsessive compulsive disorder, and the behaviours that go with it. Looked it up on the NHS website as soon as he'd gathered enough observational evidence (and hints from Miles) to know what he was looking for. Chandler was his superior, but they were a team, and teammates supported one another. Anyway, he's seen enough of Chandler's behaviour to be used to it, and he wants to reassure the DI that he's not judging him, he doesn't respect him any less for it, far from it, but he can never find the right words. Instead he offers a smile, hoping to put the Inspector at ease.

"I should be heading back to the station sir, I'm sure Sergeant Miles will have plenty for me to be getting on with." Kent says.

"Yes, of course." Chandler replies. "Thank you, Kent." he adds, softly.

"You're welcome, sir." Kent says, and walks off in the direction of his moped.

***

"Skip, come and look at this." Kent turns to see Mansell gesturing towards Miles, beckoning him over to look at the CCTV the Constable is currently sifting through.

"What have you got?" comes Miles' reply, "I could do with some good news."

Their witness hasn't given them any new leads, and they're still waiting on the pathology results. Kent's quite eager to get them, there's something about the fact that the killer is only taking the liver that's niggling at him, although the feeling hasn't led him to anything useful.

"Look." says Mansell. "Our bloke arrives an hour before the body was found in this car. Can't see the bastard's face but the vehicle should give us something to go off, right?"

Kent can see that the footage has peaked Miles' interest. They haven't had any footage of a car before now, just a couple of blurry images showing someone, presumably a man, in black clothing, who's of average height and weight.

"Good man." Miles says, clapping Mansell on the shoulder, he turns towards Kent, "Look up this car, see if there's one registered to someone in the area, if it's been reported stolen, you know the drill."

"Yes, skip." Kent says, walking over towards Mansell to jot down the make, model, and whatever they can get of the license plate; they could be fake, but he'll run it through the system anyway.

Ten minutes later, once his computer's woken up and he's fed the details into the system, he's got a number of matches on the vehicle make and model – it's apparently a popular car – and two matches for the partial registration plate. He tries the plate matches first. One was reported stolen just over a week ago, which sounds promising. The other brings up a Mr. Thomas Ranger. Kent decides to give the man a call. It rings twice before someone picks up.

"Hello?" says the voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello, this is Detective Constable Kent, with Whitechapel police, am I speaking to Thomas Ranger?"

"Yes." Mr Ranger replies, sounding confused.

"We're currently conducting an investigation and we'd like to ask you some questions, are you able to come into the station for an informal interview?"

"Err, of course, but why, is there -, have I done something wrong?" the man replies, haltingly.

"I'm afraid I can't disclose many details over the phone, sir, but we do need to establish some facts regarding you and your vehicle as part of an ongoing investigation." Kent says; Mr. Ranger sounds bewildered, a little shaky, but some people, as Kent has found out from years on the force, are excellent actors, even under pressure. "Would you be able to come in?"

"Yes, yes, I'll be there in less than half an hour, is that, is that alright?" asks Mr. Ranger.

"That would be fine, thank you." Kent says. "Please report to the front desk and ask for DC Kent or DS Miles."

The man repeats the names under his breath.

"I'll be in as soon as I can." he says.

"Thank you for your time." Kent replies, and ends the call. He gets up and walks over to where Miles is sat.

"I've got a match on the partial plate the vehicle gave us skip. I've asked the guy to come in; he says he'll be here in half an hour."

"Good lad." replies Miles, looking up from his work, I'll tell the boss and we'll have a chat with the man when he gets in. What's his name?"

"Thomas Ranger." Kent says. "60 years old, early retiree, lives not too far from where our first vic was found. I've got another match to look at, a vehicle that was stolen about a week ago."

"Hmm." says Miles "Could be useful."

"I'll follow it up, chase the report and get back to you." Kent assures the Sergeant.

"Thanks." Miles says.

Kent goes back to his desk to look up the other car. The report went in two days before their first victim was found, and the killer could be using a stolen car. That suggests that the murders were pre-planned, although the choice of victims is seemingly random. He look through the rest of the report, and decides not to contact the individual who reported it, as there's plenty of detail in the report itself, though he makes a note of the name, number, and address, just in case.

He leans back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face and through his hair, which has become more and more unruly as the day progresses. He'll have to go to the bathroom and try to flatten it down if it gets any worse. Stretching out his neck from side to side, Kent takes a quick glance around the room. Mansell's still watching the CCTV, probably the minutes after he saw the car, just to check if there's anything else that would help them. The older Constable looks like he's about to fall asleep at his desk, and Kent wonders what on Earth the man got up to last night. He cuts off that train of thought pretty quickly though, because the answer probably relates to his sister and things that he'd rather not think about. In fact usually Erica would be giving him all the gory details about her sex life but Kent had made it perfectly clear that if she so much as mentioned Mansell and sex in the same sentence, he'd be forced to tell mum about who really broke her favourite (and most hideous) vase when they'd last visited. (Erica had blamed it on the cat).

Kent turns back to his computer and whiles away the next half hour going over some of their more obscure theories about the case, such as maybe these guys all worked together/knew each other at some point and now one of them's decided to go after the others. All Kent's turned up though is that two of their victims – Gary and Steven – occasionally went to the same pub, not exactly a stunning connection.

Kent hasn't even noticed he's alone in the incident room until one of the Pathology team turns up with the blood work from their latest victim. He thanks the man and has a quick flick through the initial findings. They'd had a formal identification done earlier that morning; one of the flatmates of their most recent fatality. The man's ID had turned a name – William Fox – another young man with no obvious connection to the other victims and no obvious enemies. The pathology report added that there had been a large amount of alcohol in the man's system; Kent made a note to look at Riley's assessment of the victim's last movements, see if he'd been spotted at a pub or anything. Time of death was somewhere around 1 to 3 am that morning, and as with the others, the victim had been alive when the killer had started slicing. Also listed are the blood type and a confirmation of the observed liver disease.

Putting the file down with a sigh, Kent makes his way towards the whiteboard and adds the new information to the section under William's picture. He stares at the information for a while, eyes flicking to the writing that pertains to the other victims in the hope that he'll glean some new insight. That some piece of information will suddenly lead to the murderer that they're chasing, before he gets to anyone else.

Just as Kent's contemplating going to loos, just to get away from the staring faces of their victims, Ed walks in, balancing a number of files and loose sheets of paper.

"Hello, Kent." The archivist says, "I don't suppose you've seen Joe anywhere have you?"

Kent doesn't think he'll ever get used to the casual way Ed uses Chandler's first name. Kent knows he's been asked not to call the man 'sir' outside of work but he can't imagine calling the DI Joe just yet. (Except for in some half-formed fantasies involving quiet dates, and maybe a bedroom, but no one needs to know about what goes on inside the privacy of his own head).

"I think he's gone with Sergeant Miles to conduct an informal interview." Kent replies, "Is there anything I can help you with?" He hopes that Buchan's found something useful.

"Ah, well, it's just a couple more ideas to explore, I've been researching the use of livers and other human organs in black magic, and I've also had a look into cannibalism, although some of that is left over from the case with that religious cult, the, erm, ..."

"The Abrahamians." Kent supplies quietly, thankful that Chandler isn't here to hear him speak the name. He hopes that Ed wasn't actually planning on bringing that up to the DI. His tone must convey some of his feelings to Ed as the man suddenly looks a little guilty.

"Yes, quite, knew it was someone from the Old Testament, anyway as I was saying, black magic. Did you know that in ..."

Kent zones out a little as Ed carries on with his dark tale, inserting what he hopes are appropriate noises here and there. He's not saying that Ed isn't useful, that he hasn't had his moments, but sometimes it's difficult to concentrate when he gets going with one of his stories.

"I'll come back later anyway, when Joe's around." Ed says, having finished whatever historical recollection he had been relating.

"Okay. I'll tell him you dropped in." says Kent, refocusing his previously blank gaze.

"No need, no need." Ed assures him. "I'll be back up before long." The man pauses to look at the whiteboard. "It's funny that all the victims have negative blood types." he says.

Kent turns to look at the information he'd written earlier, comparing it to the other blood types on the board. Ed is right.

"I think the pathology team said that the chances were that it was coincidence." The chances of that must be less though, now that they have a fourth individual with a negative blood type. "Besides, why would the killer need livers from a negative blood donor specifically? I mean, they're rarer so they'd be worth more on the black market, but that doesn't explain why he hasn't taken any other organs, or why he's only just started nicking body parts."

Ed's face falls a little, and Kent feels sorry that he was so quick to dismiss Ed's observation. He apologises.

"No, you're right." Ed says. "Anyway, it must be coincidence, how would the killer know?"

Kent's breath stops suddenly in his throat.

"How would they know?" he repeats slowly.

"Emerson, are you quite alright?" Ed says, looking rather concerned. Kent nods, swallowing.

"Sorry Ed, you've just given me an idea."

"I have?" Ed seems puzzled at the sudden turn of events.

"What if ..." Kent pauses, trying to gather the tenuous threads of his theory together, "What if are killer does know the blood types of the people he's targeting?"

"You mean could our killer work somewhere with access to that kind of information? A doctor, perhaps, hospital staff?"

"Something like that." The idea sparks another neuron in Kent's brain, which fires off and connects to another, and another, and before he's really conscious of what he's doing, he's sat at the computer, bringing up the blood donation website. He calls the number, but the questions he asks means that he'll need to go to the Royal London, and won't that just make his day.

"Ed, wait here for the DI or Sergeant Miles and let them know I've gone to the London, there's something I need to look at."

"Yes, but ..." Ed splutters, but Kent cuts him off;

"It might be nothing, but if it is, then you might have helped solve the case." he tells the older man, who looks utterly perplexed by Kent's behaviour. Kent doesn't give Ed a chance to ask any more questions though; he grabs his things, throws on his coat and is gone before Buchan can say another word.

***

Kent almost sprints back into the incident room about an hour later, elation and frustration warring in his head. The emotions are causing so much noise that he doesn't realise that the rest of the team, who have all re-materialised in the length of time it took him to find out what he has, are looking at him like he's gone mad. It's only after he's put his coat on his chair and turned to face the rest of the room that he becomes aware of the fact that he's just interrupted Chandler in the middle of what looks like an information review.

There's a pause, and that gives birth to another pause, and that pause grows up to be a terrible and uncomfortable silence.

Kent feels a flush working the way up the back of his neck and curling round to climb its way onto his face, turning his features red and blotchy. His eyes flick immediately to Chandler's wide-eyed stare.

"Where on Earth have you been?" Miles says, which does little to diffuse the sudden tension in the room.

"Erm, sorry skip, I just had to pop out to the Royal London, you see Ed had this idea and ..."

"Yeah he said, but that doesn't explain why ..." interrupts Miles, who is then interrupted by Mansell, who exclaims loudly;

"But you hate the hospital!"

And Riley is nodding, and agreeing with someone, Mansell or Miles, who knows, and all of a sudden the incident room is in chaos and Kent tries to keep his eyes away from Chandler, he really does, but as always they're drawn back to him. The DI is looking at him with a raised eyebrow, which might have a hint of humour in it but Kent has definitely got to be imagining that because everyone is stressed as it is and there's no way that Chandler is going to forgive him for this interruption, never mind the fact that yesterday they'd been eating Chinese takeaway together.

"Can we please get back to the board?" Chandler says in a quiet voice. Somehow it permeates the room, and everyone else's voices peter out as it reaches them.

Kent sits at his desk and tries his best to ignore the three sets of eyes that are boring into the side of his head, Chandler, thank God, has turned back to the whiteboard.

"As I was saying," the DI says, "Mr Ranger appears to be unconnected to the crimes, he has a solid alibi, and allowed us to check his car, which Dr Llewellyn assures us would show some sign of blood, somewhere. DC Kent, have you tracked down the stolen vehicle you flagged up earlier?" Chandler's eyes turn to fix on Kent once more.

"Erm, no, sir, I have the number of individual who reported the car stolen, but I haven't got in touch yet." Kent realises that this must make him look like a bit of a prat, after all, he'd told Miles he'd get back to him on the car. He'd started to run a search earlier, but then the pathology report had come in, and then Ed had appeared and Kent had had his 'light bulb' moment and went rushing off to the Royal without a second thought. He glances at his computer, bringing up the window with the search.

"I did search for the car in the police database though, sir, and there's nothing that matches the registration number that the report gives, so either the person who stole it has changed the plates, or it's got the same ones on and they've been lucky enough not to get picked up by any random checks."

"Right, well, see if you can get any CCTV for the area the car was stolen from, and contact whoever reported it."

"Yes, sir." Kent replies.

"Right then," says Chandler, "is there anything else, or does everyone know what they need to be getting on with?"

Kent's eyes flick around the room; Miles looks as if he's about to blow.

"Yes actually," the Sergeant says, "begging your pardon, boss, but why the hell did you go charging off to the Royal London?" Miles turns his steely gaze on Kent, who grimaces. Leaving Ed to relay why he'd gone had clearly been a bad idea.

"Well, err ..." Kent casts his eyes down to his shoes, it's better than trying to look at Miles when the Sergeant's got that look on his face. The one that says if he doesn't like your answer, you'll be doing the paper work and making the tea for the next month. (Not that Kent doesn't generally do that anyway). "... Ed mentioned that all the blood types were negative, and I thought that was unusual, that another one had turned up. And then he said 'how would the killer know?' and it got me thinking ..."

"Dangerous." Mansell mutters; Kent looks up to glare at him just as the other DC turns to smirk at Riley, who shushes him.

"Anyway, it turns out that all of our victims are on the blood donor register, and gave blood at a local blood donation drive three weeks ago."

"Well it's certainly an interesting coincidence," Miles says, "but how does that help us?"

"If the killer is selecting victims with rhesus negative blood, then he must need that liver for something in particular, they'd be more rare on the black market, but it doesn't explain why he's only taking livers, and why he's only just started killing, and so obviously too. He doesn't even try to hide the bodies."

"Are you saying we should rule out the black market train of thought?" Chandler asks.

Kent takes a deep breath. He still can't make sense of all the information rattling around in his head, but he's got a gut feeling about this theory.

"I'm saying that it's even more unlikely than it was before." Kent says.

"So what do we do, contact every bloody person with negative blood who donated that day? See if anyone was acting shifty?" Miles asks, folding his arms and huffing out an exasperated breath.

Kent shrugs; he doesn't know what to do with his findings, not really. He was hoping someone else would fill in the blanks.

"I'm sorry." he says, "It was just an idea."

"Maybe the killer needs a liver himself." Mansell says from where he's sat at his desk. "Maybe that's why he got rid of the duff one this morning."

"It would explain why all the victims were young and healthy-looking, on the outside at least." adds Riley.

"They wouldn't let someone with liver disease donate blood though." Miles points out. "Besides, if our killer needed a specific blood type, and had access to the records, surely we would have only found one dead body. One bloke, one liver with the right blood type. Not a number of negative ones."

"Maybe William Fox didn't know he had liver disease." Riley says.

"Still doesn't explain why there's more than one young lad lying in the morgue." insists Miles.

Everyone turns to look at Chandler, who has remained silent so far.

"I think Miles is right." The DI says, throwing an almost apologetic glance in Kent's direction. "If our killer had access to the records then it's unlikely that he would have killed more than once. Everyone should have their tasks to be getting on with."

The rest of the team settle back into their seats, but Kent practically sinks into his. He'd been so sure that the blood donation line of inquiry would turn something up.

"Kent," Chandlers voice is quiet yet commanding, "a word in my office, please."

Kent sighs, but heaves himself out of his chair, trying to prepare himself for what he imagines will be quite the telling off. And things had been going so well. He walks into the small office and stands stiffly in front of Chandler's desk.

"Could you close the door?" the DI asks.

Kent does so, trying to ignore the eye roll that Miles throws his way. He waits patiently for the Inspector to begin.

"You shouldn't have left without clearing it with myself or Sergeant Miles." Chandler says, blue eyes meeting brown across the width of the desk.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Kent replies, not daring to say anymore for the fear that his voice will crack slightly, or something equally as embarrassing. He looks down at the desk, eyes glancing over the familiar array of items laid out meticulously in front of Chandler.

"I was worried."

Kent jerks his head up so fast that his neck muscles send a shooting pain down his spine in punishment.

"Excuse me, sir?" he says, surely he's hallucinating. It's the stress, it's getting to them all and he's finally cracked.

Chandler gives him a wry smile.

"You went by yourself, to the hospital of all places, and left Ed to tell us about it."

Kent ducks his head to hide his answering smile.

"Yeah, with hindsight it wasn't the best of plans."

"It was a good theory, but Miles is right, it doesn't explain the multiple killings."

Kent nods his head in agreement.

"I know, the idea just ran away from me. It won't happen again, sir."

"Sometimes our thoughts get away from us." Chandler concedes, fiddling with the small pot of Tiger Balm that sits on the desk. Kent nods again; he knows that all too well.

"I'll go and look up that stolen car report." Kent says, unsure why exactly he's still stood in Chandler's office, apart from his own desire to be close to the DI.

"Yes, right, of course." Chandler says, now straightening the rest of the items on the desk, despite them appearing to be in perfect alignment, at least to Kent's eyes. The young DC considers himself dismissed with these words, and heads out of the office. Miles beckons him over.

"Don't do that again, lad." the Sergeant says.

"Sorry, Serge." Kent replies. "It won't happen again, I'll come and check with you first next time."

"You make sure you do that. And don't leave Ed in charge of telling us anything, the first thing he blurted out when his nibs stepped in the room was 'Kent's gone to hospital, to the Royal', I thought the boss was going to go spare. Nearly gave me a heart attack and all: I'm not as young as I used to be."

Kent shook his head, trust Ed to make things sound as dramatic as possible.

"Seriously, until Buchan explained what on Earth he meant in his outburst, we thought something awful had happened." Miles tells him; the Sergeant's got a smile on his face, slightly mocking, but his eyes are serious.

"Sorry, skip." Kent says. He's more used to Miles' concern; he's borne the brunt of it ever since he became a Detective Constable. Miles had taken one at him, all youthful eagerness, and had declared that he wasn't in the habit of looking after other people's kids. He'd gone against that pretty much every day since, treating Kent as the baby of the team and teasing him for it, but helping out when anything happened. Handing Kent a tissue when he'd caught him crying in the loos after a little girl was murdered. Visiting him in hospital after his run in with the Krays. Even going as far as inviting him round for tea with Judy and the boys when he thought Kent was looking a bit thin and in need of a good meal.

Chandler's concern however, whilst not entirely new (the DI had looked worried when Kent got striped after all, and cared for the team in his own way) was a little disconcerting, probably because Kent was unsure how to respond of it.

"You'd best be getting on with that report." Miles says.

"Yes, Sergeant." is Kent's quick reply, he doesn't like the way Miles is looking at him, like he can read all the thoughts that are going on in Kent's head and he's having a bit of a laugh about them.

Kent returns to his desk, rifling through his notes to find the name and number of the individual he needs.

Five minutes later he hasn't really found out anything that wasn't already in with the report. The vehicle had been stolen from near the owner's home, and no he hadn't seen anyone acting suspiciously. He had no idea who'd want to steal his car. Kent sighs, and get's up to deliver his finding and a copy of the police report to Miles.

On his way back to his desk he happens to catch Mansell's eye. The older detective is looking at him like he's completely lost his marbles. Kent knows he can expect a call from Erica tonight. He rolls his eyes in Mansell's general direction and continues back to his desk, sitting heavily in his chair and wondering if they're ever going to catch this killer.

***

It's five minutes before the end of shift when Ed enters the incident room. Everyone looks up but Buchan ignores his audience and makes a beeline for Kent.

"Did you find anything?" the archivist asks, in what he probably believes is a quiet tone of voice. (It's more like a bloody stage whisper). Kent looks up and shakes his head.

"No Ed, I'm afraid our idea was a bust."

"Really?" The other man exclaims, "Why?"

"Too many things don't match up. For example if the killer knows the victims blood types, and needs the liver for someone in particular, why wouldn't he just take one liver, with the exact blood type that he needs."

"Hmm, good point, good point." Ed murmurs in agreement. "Ah well, it was a good idea." The archivist offers Kent a smile that's a little bit to jolly for the incident room at the end of a long day. Kent returns it with a slightly weaker one of his own. "Did you find any link at all?" Ed asks.

"All the victims gave blood at the same site on the same day." Kent says, keeping his voice low, he doesn't want to have to hash out the idea with the rest of the team all over again.

"That is interesting." Ed says, "Maybe the killer needs more than one liver, or maybe the first ones were no good."

"I think we'd have heard about it if someone in the hospital kept having multiple failed transplants." Kent replies, a slight scoff in his voice.

"Ah, but maybe, ..." Ed says in a voice that implies a forthcoming anecdote, "... maybe our killer isn't using them on someone that's alive, perhaps they, like in the story of Dr. Frankenstein, are trying to bring someone back to life."

"So what, the killer's trying to bring someone back to life by stuffing them with other people's livers?" Miles calls from across the incident room.

Kent hangs his head slightly, he should have known everyone would be listening in on the conversation, he can only hope that Chandler hasn't come out of his office.

Ed turns towards the new voice,

"It's a possibility." he says. "As I mentioned earlier in the week, the cases of 'muti' murders in southern Africa, using organs for black magic that are all the more potent for the fact that the victim was alive when they were removed."

"Oh, God, not that witchcraft stuff again." Miles says, rolling his eyes. "We've all had enough of that nonsense."

Expect they haven't, have they? Kent knows that Miles and Ed believe that Louise Iver is something possible unexplainable by normal means, and they never did work out who was pranking Mansell on the phones. (And let's not forget, Kent has his own demons, the ones that stare at him from his reflection every now and then). The fact is they've all seen things that are bordering on what others would call the supernatural.

"I think it would be worth it for young Kent to look at people who would have had access to those donation records, maybe someone working there on the day, and see if there have been any deaths in their families." Ed suggests.

Miles just shakes his head; Kent, Mansell, and Riley's eyes are flicking back and forth between the two men as if they're watching a tennis match.

"That would take ages." The Sergeant says. "We're much better off trying to locate the car that Mansell spotted on CCTV. There's no need to go on a wild goose chase when your suggestion is that some idiot is conducting black magic!"

"I would wager," begins Ed, starting to look a little irate, "that there's been a disturbance in a graveyard. If my theory is correct, our killer would have to steal back a body. That would be much quicker to look up."

Miles folds his arms and sighs heavily.

"Fine." the DS says, with the air of someone humouring a small child. "Kent, search for any reports of local grave robbings, or disturbances in graveyards."

Kent quickly turns to his ailing computer, and searches for the required information; the room seems to hold its' breath while everyone waits for the search to finish.

It feels like there should be a fanfare, or a small 'ping', or at least something to signal when the search is complete, but no, Kent just watches the screen until the records appear in front of him. He sighs.

"There's been a reported disturbance."

Ed looks exceptionally smug for someone who's just been told that the killer they're chasing not only murders people and steals their livers, but also nicks bodies out of the ground.

"Bloody hell." Miles on the other hand, looks anything but smug. If smug has an opposite, it's written all over Miles' face. "Is there a name?" the Sergeant asks.

"Yeah." Kent says, peering at the report. "Owen Fields."

"Well then, we'd best go and have a word with Mr. Field's family." says Miles.

Kent watches as the Sergeant gets up and makes his way over to knock on Chandler's office door.

"Boss," Miles says as he makes his way into the small office, "Kent and Buchan's wild goose chase may have turned something up after all."

"What do you mean?" Chandler asks as he enters the incident room.

"I thought that our killer might be using the livers for some kind of black magic, Joe, as I suggested earlier in the week." Ed says, stepping closer to the DI.

"Ed thinks that someone's playing Dr. Frankenstein, trying to replace a liver with someone else's." Miles clarifies, before Ed can make the explanation into something long-winded that will take up 20 minutes.

"It's end of shift, Skip." says Mansell, him and Riley have stood up and approached the rest of the team, who are gathered around Kent's desk.

Everyone looks towards Chandler.

"Miles and I will go and have a look." the DI says. "There's no point in everyone coming, we'll call you back in if we get a lead."

Riley breathes a small sigh of relief, and Mansell looks pleased.

Kent however, is not so eager to leave.

"Kent should come too, boss." Miles says, "It was his idea after all."

Chandler glances over to Kent, who's trying not to look too hopeful.

"Very well." Chandler says walking back into his office.

"Right then. Kent with us, Riley, Mansell, clear off home for a bit but keep an ear out for your phones, we'll let you know if anything turns up." Miles dismisses the team with a wave of his hand. "Buchan, you can clear off an' all."

Ed huffs in response to this, before offering Kent a brief smile, and exiting the room.

***

The weather is gloriously sunny when Kent exits the building, following Chandler and Miles. Not the kind of weather for murders at all really, or it wouldn't be in a perfect world. Then again in a perfect world there wouldn't be any murders, so maybe it's a moot point.

"There's no point us all going in separate cars." Chandler says as they reach the car park. "We can take mine."

Miles shoots Kent an undecipherable look as they follow the DI towards his Range Rover.

"You go up front Kent," the Sergeant says as they approach the 4 by 4, "you've got the address after all."

All three of them know that this isn't an actual reason for Kent to sit up front – he could have read the address just as easily from the back seat – but everyone accepts it none-the-less; although Kent does narrow his eyes slightly at the Sergeant as they get into the car. (It's returned with a look of carefully crafted ignorance).

The drive to the Fields' house is uncomfortably silent, apart from the beginning when Kent reads the address to Chandler so that the DI can input it into the SatNav.

When they reach their destination, they climb out of the vehicle and make their way to the front door of number 82. Kent can hear muffled talking, and maybe the sound of a television, and then footsteps as someone approaches the door. When opened, it reveals a man of around 40.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

"I'm DI Chandler with the Whitechapel Police, are you Mr. Fields?

"Yes." the man replies, remaining in the doorway of the house.

"I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions about your son?"

The man pales considerably.

"Have you found him?" he asks breathlessly.

"Found who?" Chandler asks, sharing a bemused look with Miles.

"Eric, have you found him, is he safe?"

"We were actually here to talk about your son Owen and the disturbance that occurred at his grave site last week." the DI says. "Do you mean to tell me that you have another son, who is missing?"

The search for the Fields had turned up one surviving son, and a daughter, the latter of which no longer lived with her parents.

"Yes, he's been missing for about a week now, Anne and I thought he'd gone to stay with friends for a bit, cool off after the funeral, but we haven't heard anything from him."

"May we come in?" Chandler asks.

"Of course, sorry, sorry." Mr Fields moves back from the doorway and gestures for them to come into the hallway.

Kent's eyes take in the space; the cleanliness of the paintwork, the pictures hanging on the wall. The stacks of what he assumes are cards from those sorry for the Fields' loss balanced on a small table.

Mr Fields leads them into a sitting room, and motions for them to sit.

"My wife's just in the kitchen." the man says. "I'll just go and let her know you're here, would you like any tea?"

"No thanks, we're fine." Miles answers for all of them. Mr Fields nods and disappears from view.

"It's a bit strange that they haven't reported their son missing don't you think?" whispers Chandler.

"Not if the lad said he was going to stay with friends." answers Miles.

They wait for a minute or so, and finally Mr. Fields reappears, wife in tow.

"Hello Mrs Fields. We're just here to ask a couple of questions about Owen if that's alright." Miles says, granting the couple one of his selective smiles, the kind crafted to put whoever he's questioning at ease without giving anything else away.

"About Owen?" Mrs Fields seems confused, and with good reason, considering the poor boy is dead.

"Yes, it's about the disturbance at his grave." Chandler says. "Do you know anyone who might have a grudge against you, or who had one against Owen?"

"No, no, everyone, ... everyone adored Owen." Mrs Fields says, choking slightly on the words.

Kent watches the tears well up in her eyes and wishes they'd never come.

"What did Owen die from?" Chandler asks, leaning forward to capture Mrs Fields with his earnest gaze. It's Mr Fields who answers him.

"Liver failure. He was only 25 but he had something wrong with his liver, we didn't have time to wait for a transplant or anything, he went into hospital, and a week later, his liver gave out, and his other organs started shutting down. Too many toxins in the body the doctors said. Couldn't do anything about it." The man's voice is quiet, hushed by grief.

"Did you say Eric went missing after the funeral?" Miles asks after a moment.

"Yes, he said he was going to stay with friends, but we haven't heard anything from him. We want to give him his space, but if anything happened to him ..." Mr Fields trails off, the implications of his words hanging heavy in the air.

"Did Eric work for the NHS blood donation team in any capacity?" Kent questions, breaking the silence.

"Yes, he does, loves volunteering does our Eric, always happy to help." Mr Fields replies, "Why?"

Kent, Miles, and Chandler share significant looks.

"Mr Fields," Miles begins, sounding uncertain of how best to phrase what he wants to say. "We're currently investigating a string of murders."

"That's why I was so concerned about Eric when you turned up, I thought you were going to tell me, tell us ..." Mr Fields doesn't finish.

"No, no, we haven't found your son." Chandler assures them, before letting Miles continue.

"It's a long shot, but we were wondering if Owens' death was linked to these murders." says Miles.

"But how? Owens' death wasn't a murder, no one wanted to hurt him." Mrs Fields has re-entered the conversation and is now on her feet.

"We believe Eric might be involved somehow in the killings. Our findings suggest that the killer had access to knowledge about the victims, knowledge about their blood type, they all gave blood at a recent local donation session." Miles look up at the Fields, trying to glean information from their faces.

"Eric?" Mr Fields says, bewildered. "Why would Eric have anything to do with these killings?"

"It's just one line of questioning we're pursuing." Chandler says, glancing at Kent and Miles for support; grief can make people do terrible things. That's why they're here. "We just want to know where Eric is, so we can rule it out."

"I'm afraid we can't help you." Mrs Fields voice has gone stone cold, and there's a blank look frozen on her face. "Let me show you out."

They leave Mr Fields sat in the living room; the man seems to have turned to stone.

Stepping out of the door Kent realises that the rest of London is still light and sunny, compared to the cold of the Fields' home, bereft of its children.

"Well that was a bust." Miles says with a huff. "If we can't find anything else connecting this case to Eric Fields, some solid evidence, then I'm afraid we're going to have to drop it." The Sergeant looks over at Kent. "Sorry lad, but we've just not got enough to go on. There are a lot of coincidences, but we can't convict a man based on those, let alone when we don't even know where the bloke is."

Kent nods. The ride back to the station is as silent as the one away from it was. He splits off from Miles and Chandler and heads over to his moped. He tries not to think about anything on the drive home.

***

Ellie and David take one look at him when he gets in and immediately put the kettle on. They know better than to ask what exactly has caused him to look like a seagull's taken a shit on him and then he's watched someone run over a kitten, but the cup of tea and the hug he gets from Ellie are much appreciated.

His phone buzzes with the arrival of a text, but it turns out to be Mansell asking about how the interview went so he ignores it and goes back to staring into the murky brown liquid in his mug.

He's just about to get up and wash the cup out in the sink when his phone rings. He glances at the screen; it's Erica.

"Hello." he says, after he's accepted the call.

"Don't you hello me, Emerson Kent." replies the rather irate sounding voice of his sister. "Mansell says that you interrupted your boss today and ended up in an argument, what on Earth have you been up to?"

Kent can hear the concern that bleeds into Erica's words despite her demand.

"If Mansell has told you the whole story why do you need to get it off me?" he asks wearily, placing his head in his hand.

"It's just not like you that's all, I'm worried about you Em, you never come and see me anymore."

Kent sighs, it's true, ever since the incident where he'd tried to break her and Finley up he'd been avoiding his twin sister. They were always as thick as thieves and now he's driven a wedge between them and he doesn't know how to remove it.

"Sorry, Eri." he says, reverting to her childhood nickname.

"Stop bloody apologising for everything, just come and see me, alright?"

"I will do, as soon as this case is finished I'll take you out dinner. We can go to that little Indian place you like." he promises.

"That's a start." Erica says, but there's a hint of a laugh in her voice now so he knows he's said the right thing. "You look after yourself yeah? And call me once in a while; I'm sick of having to ask Mansell how you are."

"I'm sick of it too!" Mansell's voice registers on the line. Kent rolls his eyes.

"Alright, alright. I will do."

"Make sure you do. Love you, Em."

"You too."

Kent hangs up and rests the phone on the kitchen counter. He turns the tap on and places his mug under it. The phone rings again. He picks it up without even glancing at the screen.

"Erica, you called me less than a minute ago, I'm fine."

"Kent?"

The voice on the phone is definitely not his sister's.

"Oh. Hello, sir. Sorry, I thought you were someone else."

"I gathered that."

"Has there been another killing?" Kent asks, placing a hand on his eyelids and gently massaging his tired eyes.

"No, no, nothing like that." Chandler replies. Kent wonders what the DI could be calling for.

"Is everything alright, sir?"

"Yes everything is fine."

Kent answers with a prolonged silence, unsure of what to say next.

"I just wanted to check how you were." Chandler finally says. "It's been a difficult week for all of us."

That may be the case but Kent knows for a fact that the DI isn't calling the rest of the team up to ask how they are. (At least he hopes not).

"I'm fine, sir. Thank you."

There's another pause.

"You're idea showed promise, I'm sorry that it didn't turn out well." Chandler sounds sincere. After all if Kent's idea had turned out to be correct, or had at least led them to another line of enquiry they might be closer to catching their killer.

"That's alright, sir, it's not your fault." Kent replies. "Thank you for saying so anyway." he adds, not wanting to come across as ungrateful for Chandler's call. There's still not the ease between them that there had been the evening before (and doesn't that seem a world away) but it's better than the tension that was present at the station.

He's just about to say goodbye and end the call but Chandler stops him.

"I was worried about you today. I couldn't bear -, I wouldn't want to see you get hurt again."

Kent's face flushes red, he's glad that there's no one there to witness it.

"Thank you, sir."

There's a sigh on the other end of the line.

"I really wish you weren't so insistent on calling me 'sir' outside of work."

"Well what should I call you then?" Kent asks, a small smile playing around his lips.

"I'd like it if you could call me Joe, when we're not in work."

"Well Joe, perhaps you should call me Emerson, or even Em, if you like." Kent offers.

"Emerson." Chandler sounds as if he's testing how the word fits in his mouth, careful and curious. A shudder runs down Kent's spine; he thinks that he should probably end the phonecall unless he wants to make a fool of himself. 

"You should try and get some rest, sir, sorry, sorry, Joe." The word doesn't seem to fit quite right just yet, maybe Kent will have to call Chandler 'Joe' to his face before it really does.

"Yes, I will. You should too."

"I will. Thanks for calling me."

"Goodnight, Emerson."

"Night, Joe."

Kent waits for the DI to hang up before he puts the phone down. He smiles to himself as he washes the mug and heads off to watch telly in a much better mood than he had been just a couple of hours earlier.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell this story absolutely ran away with me in this chapter. I’m going to try and rein it back in a bit in my next update, in which there will be some progression on the Chandler/Kent front. It should be up no later than the 22nd of July, earlier if I can help it!
> 
> Thank you to all of the wonderful people who have left comments and kudos, I have so much love for you all. xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long! All mistakes are mine, as always. And I still don't own Whitechapel.

***

It’s 4am when Kent wakes to the persistent ringing of his phone. He turns towards his bedside table, hand grasping for the device which has woken him from a surprisingly pleasant sleep; he doesn’t get many of those.

“Yeah.” It’s not the most eloquent greeting, but it’s early, and Kent didn’t bother to check who was calling, although experience would suggest it was work related.

“We’ve found Eric Fields.” Miles’ tone of voice is one that makes Kent’s heart sink into his stomach, maybe even a little further. No good news follows that kind of tone.

“Is he dead?” Kent asks, rubbing at his eyes.

Miles sighs from the other end of the line.

“You need to get down here.”

“What’s the address?”

Kent’s only half-listening as Miles tells him where to come to, barely catching the street name, and the words ‘abandoned warehouse’ – two words that never bode well when they’re discussing a murder case.

He hangs up and gets dressed in the early morning light. At least he finds it a bit easier to rouse himself when there’s light coming through the window, despite the god-awful hour. There’s nothing worse than getting morning wake-up calls in the winter, when he knows the sun won’t be up until just before eight.

Kent moves quietly through the flat, forgoing breakfast in favour of making as little noise as possible. Heaven knows that Ellie and David have both been woken up enough times by Kent’s work, whether it’s him creeping around when he gets called out for a case, coming back at all hours from the job, or other, less normal work-related issues. Such as those during and after the Kray case.

He shakes his head to clear the dark thought, and the rest of the sleep-induced fog from his head, and heads out into the fresh morning air.

***

When he arrives on the scene he’s greeted almost immediately by a wan-faced Miles. The poor man’s been up half the night by the looks of him, probably because of his youngest, Kent hears that little kids don’t sleep too well, and he doubts little Sarah is any exception, especially if she’s inherited any of Miles’ stubbornness.

“Alright, Skip?” Kent says, placing his helmet on top of his moped. He watches with growing dread as Miles runs a hand over his face.

“You were right.” the Sergeant says. Kent doesn’t reply, although he’s got a good idea of what Miles is talking about. “It was Eric. And bloody Buchan was right too. God, I hate it when that man is right.”

Kent remains silent, waiting for Miles to tell him exactly what he means.

“Police got a call about half an hour ago; someone was driving past and saw a light on, thought it was odd. When the poor bloke heard the screaming, well, he called the paramedics too. Turns out that Fields had decided the best way to save his brother was to give him his own liver, tried to cut the thing out himself.” Miles shudders. “Paramedics on the scene tried to stop the bleeding, but the bastard had nicked a major blood vessel or two going in and he lost too much blood.”

Kent feels a bit sick, but he couldn’t truthfully say that he didn’t feel a little self-righteous in the knowledge that he was right. He’s not that good of a man, though he’d like to be.

Miles gestures towards the warehouse.

“You’d best come and have a look for yourself.” Miles says, though it’s not so much of a request as a command. Kent knows he needs to see this, to be able to write his own report on it, but at the same time he feels as if there’s no point. They’ve already lost; Eric Fields is dead. Kent doesn’t know which is worse, when they capture the killer and then they die, or when they die before they’ve even come to the conclusion that someone is the killer, cutting off any chance of them redeeming themselves.

At least there won’t be any more deaths by this murderer’s hand. It’s a small comfort.

Kent approaches the building cautiously, avoiding damaging anything that SOCO might want to take a look at. He suits up and enters the warehouse.

The first thing he notices is the blood, followed by the cloying stench of decay. Owen Fields’ body lies on the concrete floor, the abdomen cut open. There’s no blood there though, just fluid from the decomposition of the body. Kent wonders if Fields’ kept his brother in here the whole time. It’s probably the case, judging from the smell. He imagines Dr. Llewellyn will be able to tell them more.

Eric Fields lies next to his brother, the pool of blood around him smudged (no doubt where the paramedics knelt, trying to save his life) with footprints leading away. What’s missing from the scene are any of the other livers; Kent doubts that they’ll find them; they’ve probably been discarded and taken out with the rubbish.

Their killer’s skin has been slashed open, the cut crude and jagged. Though he can’t see from where he’s standing, it’s unlikely that the murderer managed to get his own liver out.

Kent looks round for the rest of the team, neither Mansell nor Riley are here yet, they live a little further away from the site that Kent does, and he imagines it’s more difficult to leave a warm bed when there’s another person in it. He knows it is actually, but he’s not experienced it recently enough to remember how difficult. He’s not had many partners in the last couple of years, and none in the past six months or so, both for reasons he’d rather not mention. Besides, any of his more recent amorous encounters ended with him sneaking out of someone else’s bed at various unholy hours.

Chandler is at the edge of the building, speaking to what Kent presumes is one of the paramedics who were originally on the scene. Miles is chatting with one of the coppers, though it looks too natural for the Sergeant to be asking the Police Constable in question anything case related. That’s probably already been done, and now Miles is just having a bit of a catch up. If it wasn’t impossible Kent would swear that Miles knew, or knew of, nearly everyone in the Met. He certainly seemed to know everyone in the Whitechapel section.

Riley and Mansell arrive at practically the same time; Miles heads off to fill them both in, leaving Kent to stare at the crime scene. The more he looks the worse it gets. Owens’s trunk region is mangled from having been cut open, and then sewn up multiple times. The poor boy’s face is swollen, ruined. Maggots have started to make a home in the cavities on his face and body.

Kent jumps as a hand is laid on his shoulder.

“Come away, Kent.” it’s Chandler, his voice laden with care and disappointment. Kent dreads facing him, can’t stand to see what must be blame in his eyes, no matter who it’s being directed towards. Kent stumbles away from the bodies, and weaves in and out of SOCO, who are milling around, taking over. He looks up and sees Riley’s face, she looks worn and worried. Mansell’s back is to him, but the tight line of the man’s shoulders suggests that he too is feeling the weight of this case. The weight of every case. This is just one more nail in the coffin, another brick of guilt and shame weighing them down.

The next thing Kent sees is his DI’s concerned gaze, the blame (self blame by the look of it) carefully hidden in the back of his eyes.

“Are you alright?” asks his superior.

“Yeah, sir, fine, fine. Sorry, must have taken a bit of a turn back there, it won’t happen again.” Kent manages to bite off any further apologies.

“Take a couple of minutes to sort yourself out; we’ll be heading to the station in around five minutes.”

Chandler leaves and Kent takes a couple of deep breaths, clearing his head as he inhales and exhales the summer air, which has become heavy and humid. He watches as Riley walks towards him, no doubt coming to berate him for something to disguise the fact that she’s worrying about everyone.

“What happened back there, hmm?” she asks, handing him a bottle of water. God knows where she found one of those. He twists the cap off and takes a drink. He doesn’t quite know how to respond. It’s nice to have Riley mothering him again but he can’t help but see the cracks in their relationship, the ones he made and doesn’t know how to patch up. He can’t take back what he did to Mansell, he doesn’t know for sure if he would, given the opportunity.

“The smell must have got to me.” Kent says. It might be true, it might not, he doesn’t quite know what happened.

“Yeah the smell’s a bit of a bugger.” Mansell says, joining them, his posture absent of its usual swagger. The older man looks a bit green around the gills actually, Kent knows that dead bodies tend to make Mansell come over a bit peculiar. Despite this, Mansell would normally be teasing him for this sort of thing, but they’re all on eggshells around one another, and they need to stick together after a case like this. The media and the flack they get from the rest of the station is bad enough after cases where they catch the murderer, they didn’t even get to this one in time.

“It is horrible.” Riley agrees. “Poor bastards.” she adds, nodding to the brothers who lie together on the ground. “How mad must you be to think you can bring your brother back from the dead?”

“We all do strange things for those we love.” Kent says, trying not to flinch when he realises how his words could be taken. Luckily no one seems inclined to take them at anything but face-value, and the moment passes.

Miles wanders over to their little group, which is now stood silent.

“Right you lot,” he says, “back to the station and we’ll get this thing wrapped up. No point hanging around here getting in the way.” The Sergeant brushes past them, presumably heading for his car.

“Guess that’s our cue to leave.” Riley says, breaking off from the group. Mansell nods to Kent before he leaves. Kent is left standing there, bottle of water still in hand. He takes another swig before reaching in his pocket for the keys to his moped.

He’s putting his helmet on when he hears someone clear his throat behind him. He turns and comes face to face with Chandler. Joe, he thinks. _Joe._ The name sounds unfamiliar even in his head now that he’s been invited to use it, at least while they’re not at work. Which they are, right now.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright to drive?” Chandler asks. “I could give you a lift, if you like.”

Kent smiles slightly, the DI looks uncomfortable, as if he’s not sure how this sort of interaction should go.

“Thanks, sir, but I’ll be fine, and I should probably take the bike anyway, I’d just have to come back for it later, and I don’t think the buses run very often out this way.

“Oh, yes, of course, sorry, I didn’t think.” Chandler says, stumbling over his words.

“Not to worry, sir.” Kent replies. “I’ll see you down at the station, yeah?”

“Yes, I’ll see you there.”

Kent indulges himself with another small smile, hooking his leg over his bike. The thought of the invitation entertains him all the way to the station, at which point his mood takes a sudden nose dive. Someone’s called the press. News never sleeps apparently.

He sighs heavily as he parks his bike and makes his way towards where Miles is admirably trying to deal with the gathering of reporters; not an easy feat when there’s a mic shoved in your face and you know that everything you say will be twisted. He gets within hearing range just in time to hear Miles say;

“There will be no further comments at this time.”

It’s probably not the first time he’s said it in the conversation, and when Kent sees the DI’s Range Rover pull into the station he doubts it will be the last.

The reporters converge on Chandler, halfway across the car park before the Inspector even has a chance to get out of his car.

Kent quickly decides to change direction, no longer heading towards the spot where Miles, Mansell, and Riley previously stood, and instead aiming for Chandler. He’s not the only one, the rest of the team are at the rear of the reporters. Miles looks as if he’s trying to find a gap to push through. None of them want to see the DI cornered; they need to put on a united front.

Kent manages to station himself next to the boss as the first barrage of questions hit, words like ‘incompetence’, and ‘failure’ seem to be the talking points of the day, and Kent can see Chandler’s shoulders droop slightly under the onslaught. He steps a little closer to the DI, making his presence, his support, known. Miles and the other DCs reach them soon afterwards, forming a cluster around their Detective Inspector.

“DI Chandler,” says one man, a slimy looking fellow with a short beard and a receding hairline, “how does it feel to be leading the team that has the worst track record in terms of successful arrests among the Metropolitan Police?”

Bit of a sweeping statement, Kent thinks. It may be true if one was just talking about homicide cases, but in the whole of the Met was a bit of a stretch. Even then they’ve had a number of successfully closed cases, straightforward ones. It’s just that none of them were serial killers.

Thankfully Chandler refrains from saying anything other than “There will be no comment until the official report is released, please direct all other enquiries to a member of the press department.”

The press department really hates it when Chandler says that, but it’s better than adding fuel to the media fire.

The team forms a sort of wall around the DI as they move towards the station entrance. From the corner of his eye Kent can see that Miles has a hand on Chandler’s elbow. They make it into the relative safety of the station and walk up to the incident room. Miles and Chandler walk immediately towards the smaller office, no doubt to have their own version of debriefing before they talk to the rest of the team.

Kent turns towards the kettle, but sees that Riley has beat him to it.

“Tea?” she asks. They’ve been working together for too long for her to ask him if he wants a coffee, he can’t stand the stuff they have in the office, and so only resorts to it in dire emergencies. He nods, and offers his colleague half a smile. They’re all in this together after all.

Mansell joins them after a moment with a;

“Great bloody start to the day this is, eh?”

Kent huffs. When you’ve been called in before the shift starts it’s never going to be a good start to the day. No one calls up and asks you to come in early for birthdays.

Once the kettle is boiled, and the various teas and coffees made, they stand around sipping their drinks, waiting for Miles or the DI to come out and tell them what they need to do to finish up. They’ve done it enough times by now that it’s second nature, but Chandler doesn’t like to leave them without some sort of closure, as much as he can offer. Probably something to do with the training he’s had. Get a case, brief the team, solve the case, debrief the team. If only it were that simple.

After about five minutes, in which only the low murmuring of voices can be heard from behind the door that separates them from the Sergeant and the DI, Miles and Chandler re-enter the room. Chandler has his mask in place, the one that lets everyone know the boss isn’t having a good day but is doing his best not to show it. Miles looks exasperated more than anything.

Chandler tries to avoid looking at the board as he addresses his team.

“At 3:26 this morning, a call was made to the police reporting a light on in an abandoned warehouse. The same caller rang 999 again at 3:29 to request an ambulance due to hearing what the caller described as ‘a man screaming’ and ‘sounds like someone is in serious pain’. Paramedics and police who responded to the calls found Eric Fields, who had attempted to cut open his abdomen and retrieve what we assume would be his liver. In this process he severed major blood vessels, causing him to bleed out. The paramedics were unable to revive him. Also at the scene was the body of Owen Fields. A formal identification of the bodies will take place later today. Mr. and Mrs. Fields have been informed of their son’s death, and the situation.” Chandler takes a breath, and turns to Miles, who continues.

“Due to suggestions made yesterday by DC Kent, and Buchan, we believe that the murders that we have been investigating this week will now stop, and that Eric Fields was our killer. We will need to trace Eric’s movements in the past week, try and find out where he was staying to see if we can connect any of the victims to him in any other way, bar the fact that he was working at the blood donation session where they all donated. The car that was reported stolen just before the killings, as spotted by Mansell on the CCTV was present at the scene.”

There’s a moment’s silence as everyone tries to digest the information they’re being told. Kent realises that although he was probably right, they have yet to prove it beyond reasonable doubt.

“We must work quickly to assure the public that Eric Fields was our killer, and that therefore no other murders will take place.” Chandler says. “I will also need each of you to write up your case reports concerning what has occurred so far. These will need to be submitted for review by the end of shift today. Sergeant Miles and I would like to thank you all for your help during this case.”

No one speaks until Chandler has returned to his office, the closing door cutting through the quiet of the incident room.

“Kent.” Miles calls.

“Yes, Serge?” The young DC makes his way over to the Sergeant’s desk.

“I’d like you to take the lead on tracking Eric’s movements in the time frame for the case. See if you can get him on CCTV near any of the crimes, try and track the stolen car. We think that the knife he used was probably the murder weapon, but there’s so much blood on it, we doubt we’ll find any DNA other than his.”

“Yes, Serge.” Kent says. He’s keen to get going, he just wants this case to be finished with. He half wishes that he’d never made a connection between Eric Fields and the victims, maybe then he wouldn’t be dead, maybe it wouldn’t have been him. Then again, maybe it still would have been, and someone else could have died.

“I know I don’t need to tell you that we need to wrap this up as soon as possible, but I’ll say it anyway. Be quick, but be thorough.” Miles counsels him.

“I will be.” Kent assures the Sergeant. And gets to work.

***

Three hours later forensics has determined that most of the blood on the knife belongs to Eric Fields. With some DNA suggesting that Eric had used the weapon to open his brother’s decaying body. There was also some dried blood underneath the fresher stuff, which was partially degraded, but appeared to be very similar to that of William Fox, and that of Steven Cooke. That gave them two out of four, which was enough to plausibly conclude that it was Fields who had committed the other murders.

Kent had also found that Eric had been staying in a shady youth hostel, but using the warehouse as his base of operations. Further exploration of the crime scene found dried blood, which had stained the concrete, despite apparent attempts to scrub it out. CCTV from the area around the site showed the stolen vehicle Eric had been using driving towards and away from the warehouse at times that coincided with that of the other murders.

One thing that continued to baffle them however was how Eric had found his victims and kidnapped them without anyone else noticing. They would all have had to be snatched when no one would notice, which may explain the time gaps between the murders. Fields would have had to select a victim, find their details, and then watch them until opportunity presented itself. Unfortunately they had only been able to place Fields near Steven Cooke on the night before that particular murder. The other kidnappings were evading them.

By the time 10 o’clock rolls around, barely six hours since Kent was called out of bed, everyone is wearing thin around the edges. Mansell, who is on CCTV watch again, looks ready to fall asleep at his desk. There’s only so long you can stare at a screen without zoning out.

“Anything yet?” Kent asks the older DC.

“Nah, mate.” replies Mansell, stifling a yawn. The man gets up to refill his mug of coffee; they’re all running on caffeine and sheer determination. It’s likely that none of them have even had breakfast; Kent knows that he hasn’t managed to grab anything, and he doubts that anyone would be consciously thinking about eating at four in the morning. Unless they were on their way home from a night out.

Kent sighs and leaves Mansell to the CCTV; he’ll come and take over in half an hour or so, or Riley will take a turn. He walks back to his desk, stretching before he sits down. He’s at a bit of a loss as to what to do really, there’s only so much CCTV one can sift through, and they haven’t been able to find anyone who saw anything useful with connection to Eric Fields.

Kent looks over the list of people from the hostel who said they’d seen or interacted with Fields in the last week. None of them really had much to say apart from that he’d kept to himself, hadn’t eaten in the dining hall, and only spoke when spoken to. One lady had said that she’d thought Fields looked a bit shifty, but considering the establishment, that word could be used to describe any number of the residents.

He taps his fingers restlessly on the desk. To be honest, they’ve probably got enough evidence to pin all of the murders on Eric Fields, between the blood, the car, the CCTV, and the circumstantial evidence. It probably wouldn’t stand up to well in court, but since they couldn’t bring the killer to justice in that way did it really matter? Unfortunately to Kent, it did, he wasn’t going to do things half-arsed just because Fields was dead. That wasn’t how they did things, not since Chandler had taken control of the team.

Kent turns to look at his report. He’s written most of it, based on the evidence they’ve got and the theories he’d been so confident about the day before. Although he was right about the identity of the killer, and probably about how Eric Fields had found his victims they’ll never know for sure.

He looks up as the door to the incident room opens, it’s Miles, and he doesn’t look happy.

“Everything alright, skip?” Mansell asks, looking up from the computer screen as the Sergeant passes his desk.

“Just had Mr and Mrs Fields in.” comes the curt reply.

Kent grimaces in sympathy, dealing with the family of the deceased is never pleasant, and is made even less so when their loved one is being implicated in numerous killings. He pushes himself up out of his seat.

“Do you need a cup of tea Serge?” he asks, wandering over to Miles.

Miles looks over at him, there’s some unknown emotion simmering away at the back of the older man’s eyes, but Kent can’t determine what it is.

“No, thanks lad.”

“I - ...” Mansell begins.

“I wasn’t offering to you.” Kent tells him, a little too sharply. Damn this case. He softens his tone. “I’ll take over on the tapes though, but only so you can make your own tea.”

Mansell rolls his eyes.

“It’ll be coffee for me mate, I’m half asleep.”

Kent tips his head in acknowledgement and sits down in the chair that Mansell has just vacated.

“Where are you up to on this?” he asks, unable to determine the location from the clip he’s watching.

“I’ve been through the CCTV for the hostel. All the times Fields comes and goes match up with the times and the footage we got from near the warehouse. That tape is from outside the first vic’s flat, Hoxton. He was in some jammy student accommodation so there’s CCTV directly outside the building. I’m trying to find the point where he doesn’t come back but no luck so far.”

Kent makes a hmm sound and turns back to the tape. It’s a generic modern building, run by some fancy student company. Gary must have been having help from his parents or have taken out an extra loan because the place was expensive. They’d researched the company when his body had turned up, just to check if there was anything fishy going on.

An hour and a half passes in that strange way that time sometimes does, Kent feels like everything has slowed down to a crawl but when he checks the clock more time has passed than he’d originally thought.

He thinks he’s found the point at which Gary Hoxton disappeared. The student can be seen leaving his accommodation at 7pm; it’s still very light outside, so there’s no reason to believe that Gary would have thought himself in danger. After that point he doesn’t return. Not one of his flatmates could remember if he said he was going anywhere. His neighbour had apparently knocked on his door at about 9 to ask if he could scrounge some milk but there had been no reply and his flatmate hadn’t thought anything of it. No one had tried to contact him after that. They didn’t notice he was gone until they got the call about his body being found.

If only he could find out where Gary Hoxton had gone that night. They could always try appealing to the public for information, but he doubts they’d be allowed to, no need to waste resources interviewing people and manning the phones when the suspect is dead.

Replaying the clip over Kent sees that Gary was on his phone when he left the building.

“Does anyone know if we have Hoxton’s phone around?” he asks the room.

“It’s probably at Forensics.” Miles replies. “Why, you found something?”

“Maybe.” Kent replies, standing up and shrugging on his jacket. “I’m going to go and ask.”

He walks out of the incident room and heads for the Forensics department.

When he arrives he has a quick scan round for Alex. He and Alex have known each other for years now, practically since Kent became a DC. The slightly older man had taken one look at Kent’s ‘baby face’ when he’d come down to Forensics for the first time and decided that he couldn’t leave him to fend for himself in the wilds of the Whitechapel Police Station.

Thankfully he’s able to locate his friend quickly and he weaves in and out of the files and tables to reach him.

“What brings you down here?” Alex asks. “Thought you lot would be wrapping everything up.”

Kent isn’t surprised that his colleague knows about the state of their case, after all the murder weapon and anything else found at the scene that was considered important enough would have made its way down here.

“Yeah we are, just trying to tie up any loose ends. You wouldn’t happen to have Gary Hoxton’s phone down here would you? He was the first victim.”

“Sure, it’s probably around here somewhere.” Alex replies, moving through the room to gain access to a large filing cabinet. He roots around for about half a minute before pulling out a plastic wallet. “Here it is.” he says, holding the bag containing the phone up in triumph.

“Any chance that the rest of the victims’ phones are in there as well?”

“Should be.” Alex says, returning to the metal cabinet. “Yeah, here we go.” He pulls three other bags from the filing system. “Have you found something new?” The man asks.

“I don’t know yet.” Kent tells him.

Alex raises an eyebrow, Kent just rolls his eyes.

“I honestly don’t know. It might be nothing.”

“Yeah like when you ran out to go check something at the hospital and then had an argument with your whole team about your theory?” Alex questions.

“Who -, when -, how did you hear about that?” Kent splutters, marching over to his friend and grabbing the evidence bags from him.

“Most of the station knows about it.” Alex informs him. “Caused quite the stir from what I hear, although you did turn out to be right, so it’s not all bad.”

Kent raises his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I swear you only talk to me because I like to make a fool out of myself and it entertains you.” He mutters.

“Well there’s that,” Alex concedes, “and the fact that your team gets all the interesting cases, and I need to get the information to spread from somewhere.”

Kent glares at the other man.

“I should be getting back.” he says.

“Yes, yes, run along back to your case, let me know when you’re free though, yeah, we should get a drink, I’ll get Mark to come, he hasn’t seen you in ages.”

Kent sighs internally, between Erica and Alex it looked like he might be forced into socialising more than he would normally within the coming week. Unless another case came up. Not that he was hoping for one or anything.

“Sounds great.” he says finally, mustering a smile, it’s not that he doesn’t enjoy Alex’s company or that of his friend’s partner, Mark; he’s just not been in the mood for spending time with people of late. Especially those in happy relationships. He stops the thought before it can go any further; being jealous of other people’s happiness is one of his flaws that he’d rather not dwell on. “I’ll let you know when we finish, though I’ll need some sleep before I spend a night out with you and Mark, and no doubt the team will want to go out and drown their sorrows.”

Alex smiles sympathetically at him.

“Go on then, I’ll see you around.”

Kent thanks him for the phones and heads back up to the incident room. He’s walking along the corridor, minding his own business when Chandler exits the men’s bathroom. He’s not quite sure how to acknowledge his DI, he doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he knows Chandler has just changed his shirt, and probably spent a good 10 minutes washing his hands. It’s that kind of day. He settles for a small smile.

“Ah, Kent.” Chandler looks a bit embarrassed, as though he’s been caught doing something untoward. It’s one thing for everyone to know about his habits, it’s another thing entirely for him to be confirming them.

Kent wishes that the DI wasn’t embarrassed; it’s not as if Kent cares about his boss’ slightly unusual behaviour.

“Just been down to Forensics, sir.” he says, breaking the silence, which had become uncomfortable.

“Oh?”

“Well I noticed that Gary Hoxton was on his phone when he left his flat for the last time, I was hoping to go through his call logs and find out who he was speaking to, maybe that would tell us where he was going and give us a more solid link between him and Fields.”

“It’s a good plan, let me know if you find anything.”

“I will, sir.” Kent is rewarded with a soft smile.

They walk back to the incident room together in companionable silence.

“Eh up, what’s all this then?” Mansell says as they enter the room, Kent glares at him, hoping against hope that the boss hadn’t heard.

“Sorry Mansell, what’s what?” Chandler asks with what seems like genuine puzzlement; Kent can’t tell if he’s putting it on or not.

“Err, nothing, sorry boss.” Mansell replies, reddening slightly. Chandler just nods and heads for his office. Once the door dividing the room has shut Mansell sidles up to Kent.

“Are you finally getting somewhere with the boss?” he asks with an irreverent grin.

“I have no idea what you mean.” Kent says.

“Yeah, yeah, no point hiding it mate, I was there when you asked him out for that drink.”

“Please don’t remind me of that.”

“It’s about time; we were all starting to give up hope after watching you pine away for years.”

Kent doesn’t dare ask who Mansell means when he says ‘all’, for all he knows it could include the whole sodding station.

“Shut up, Mansell.” is his extremely mature reply as he heads towards his desk with the victims’ phones.

“Aw, come on mate, it’s just a bit of fun.”

“I’m sure it is.” Kent mutters. It’s not his fault he’s so bloody obvious about it, it’s just the way he is, he’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, and Erica and his mum have always said that everything he’s thinking is written all over his face.

“Me and Erica just want you to be happy, mate.”

Kent swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. He can’t even look at Mansell, he’s too ashamed, so he just murmurs ‘Thanks’, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for what he did, even though everyone else seems to be on their way towards doing so.

He turns back to his work, pulling a pair of nitrile gloves from his desk and putting them on before unzipping the evidence bag containing Hoxton’s phone. He checks the call log against the time he’d recorded from the CCTV footage. The contact is a mobile number, although not one that Gary has saved under any sort of name or organisation. A passing acquaintance perhaps, someone he’d met and decided he wouldn’t need to contact again? It could have been a wrong number, Kent muses, as he types the phone into his computer search again. Hopefully he’ll be able to find a match for the number, or at least a clue as to who the network provider is.

He isn’t expecting the name Eric Fields to appear in the completed search window. The mobile number has only just been added to the system, no doubt as part of the investigation. Kent didn’t even know that they’d found a phone.

After a couple more minutes, he finds that the number that’s registered to Eric Fields can be found in every one of the victims’ call logs. He even finds a voicemail.

“Hello, this is Matthew from the NHS Blood donation service, you recently gave blood at a local session, and we’d like to talk to you about your experience, if you could please give me a call back it would be much appreciated. Thank you. Good bye.”

Kent sits still for a moment. Shocked. Fields must have obtained the victims’ contact numbers from their records, and then called his targets to arrange a meeting place. No one would really think that it was out of place for someone from the blood donation service to follow up after the session, and if they did, Kent was sure that Fields could have come up with some plausible excuse. The message also helps to explain why Eric Field’s name hadn’t cropped up in their previous investigation; if he’d used a false name once, he could easily do so again.

Maybe the killer had met with each of the victims before he killed them, they can certainly conclude that all of the victims were contacted by phone.

Once he’s written everything down, Kent presents his findings to Miles. The Sergeant grants him a rare smile, and tells him that he’s done well. It’s not quite the same as being praised by Chandler, but it stills warms him, makes him feel a small flash of pride. He returns to his desk with a smile.

***

By the time end of shift finally comes around Kent, and everyone else in the office, is half asleep. They’re all sat staring blearily at the whiteboard, trying in vain to concentrate on what their DI is saying, as he finishes his debrief.

Kent is trying to concentrate, he really is, but all he can think about is going home and spending some quality time with the TV and the tatty sofa, maybe a beer and a takeout. No one in the team is in the mood for heading out on the town tonight, and although that probably means tomorrow evening will involve a boozy night at the pub, he’s just grateful that it isn’t tonight. Maybe he’ll manage to get a good night’s sleep.

He says goodbye to Riley, Mansell, and Miles as they leave, all eager to be off home, they all seem to be lighter somehow, now that the case has been closed. All except Chandler that is.

As much as Kent dreams of being able to go back to his flat and relax, he has a nagging feeling that if he leaves the boss to his own devices the man will be drinking til the early hours of the morning. He makes his way to the DI’s office, the door of which is open.

Lo and behold, there’s a glass on the desk, and Kent would bet a great deal that the liquid inside it wasn’t water.

Chandler is sat behind his desk, and seems to be deep in contemplation. Kent clears his throat.

“Are you not going home, sir?” he asks.

Chandler looks up at him with weary eyes.

“Am I ever going to catch one?” he says. Not the answer Kent had been expecting, though it is one he probably should have anticipated.

“You know it’s not your fault, sir.” he says, moving closer to the desk. Chandler’s glance skitters away and falls on the glass on the desk. The DI picks it up and takes a drink, grimacing slightly. Definitely not water then, Kent thinks, confirming his earlier theory.

“I can’t help think that it must be, all these cases, there’s no other explanation.”

“It’s just coincident, sir, a run of bad luck.”

Chandler scoffs and takes another sip of what Kent assumes is vodka, something expensive no doubt.

“You need to go home, sir.” Kent says.

“What have I told you about calling me ‘sir’ outside of work?” Chandler asks. Kent wonders if this is the first glass of alcohol, and suspects that it isn’t.

“We’re not outside of work yet, sir.” he replies, somewhat teasingly. It seems to lighten the mood a little, as Chandler offers him a wry smile.

“No, I suppose we aren’t.” The older man says. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d like to repeat the other night?”

Kent takes a moment to process the request.

“If that’s what you want, sir.” he says cautiously.

“It is what I what.” Chandler replies, more to himself than Kent.

As much as he would like to go back to Chandler’s Kent wonders if he’d be taking advantage of his boss who seems well on his way to being intoxicated. Speaking of which, how is Chandler going to get home if he can’t drive?

“Bollocks.” Kent mutters. “Sir, I think you’re going to have to let me drive you home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Kent; I haven’t had that much to drink.” Chandler replies indignantly.

“I’d still feel better if you didn’t drive, sir.”

“Fine, but stop calling me ‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir.” Kent replies with a smirk. He holds his hand out for the car keys that Chandler has just picked up.

As they exit the building together he hopes to God that no one is paying them any particular attention, if they are, he won’t be able to brush this off as just walking to the car park together, he’s going to be leaving his bike and driving Chandler’s car for heaven’s sake. In hindsight, this wasn’t the best idea that he’s ever had.

Thankfully they make it to the car and manage to drive back to Chandler’s flat without raising any suspicion. Kent’s stomach protests the fact that he hasn’t eaten in who knows how many hours just as Chandler is unlocking the front door.

“Perhaps we should go and get some food first?” he says, offering Kent a warm smile.

As much as Kent hates to admit it, he’s knows that the DI is only this relaxed because he’s had a bit to drink. Kent isn’t really complaining though.

“That would be nice.” Kent says.

“Is the place from last time alright?” Chandler asks, walking into the flat. Kent follows.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Chandler calls and orders the takeaway while Kent stands about awkwardly in the kitchen.

“You can come and sit down in the living room you know.” Chandler says once he’s finished the call.

“Oh, right.” Kent says, “I was wondering if you wanted some tea actually, sir.”

“Again with the ‘sir’.” is Chandler’s slightly exasperated reply. Kent blushes; he keeps forgetting that the DI has asked to be called ‘Joe’ outside of work. “I’m going to have another drink.” The DI announces. “Would you like one?”

Kent weighs the pros and cons of this, on one hand, it’s not as if he’ll be driving home, he’ll have to get the bus or the tube, and on the other hand, if he has a drink, his mouth will end up running away from him.

“Have you got any beer?” he asks. At least with beer he’s unlikely to be as affected as he usually was when spirits were involved.

“I think so.” Chandler replies. He walks over to the fridge and pulls out some fancy type of microbrew. “Will this do?”

“That’s fine, thank you.” says Kent. “Do you have a bottle opener?”

Chandler opens a draw and produces one, which he hands to Kent. He then opens the door to the freezer and removes a bottle of vodka.

They drink in mostly comfortable silence until the food arrives, after which there’s not much talking because they’re both too busy eating.

Afterwards Chandler removes the cartons and takes them outside to the rubbish bins round the back of the building stating that he can’t stand the smell. Kent places the plates and cutlery they used in the dishwasher, which Chandler then puts on a rinse cycle.

“Do you need to be getting back to your flat, your flatmates must be wondering where you are.” The DI says once the kitchen has been returned to its pristine condition. As a matter of fact Kent had already text Ellie and David to say he wouldn’t be home til late. David would be out and about tonight anyway, and Ellie had replied with a wink emoticon, which Kent had ignored.

“No it’s fine; I can stay for a bit, if you like.”

Chandler just nods and walks into the living room. Kent joins him and they sit down on the sofa together, albeit at either end of the piece of furniture. Chandler turns on the TV and flicks through the channels, eventually landing on an episode of grand designs. Kent doesn’t really care what’s on the TV, it’s just background noise. He can feel himself falling asleep but is powerless to resist the siren call of rest.

When he wakes, and checks his phone, he sees that it’s past midnight, and that Chandler appears to have placed a blanket over him. How embarrassing. He stands up as quietly as possible and makes his way to the kitchen to retrieve his wallet, he’ll probably be able to catch a bus home, or he might splurge on a taxi.

He enters the kitchen and finds Chandler, still awake, illuminated slightly by the soft lighting that’s installed into his kitchen cupboards. The DI is sat with another glass of vodka in his hand, and seems to be staring blankly at the wall.

“Joe?” Kent says softly. The DI moves slightly, but doesn’t really acknowledge Kent’s presence. “Joe, I’m going to go, I’m sorry for falling asleep on your sofa.”

Chandler takes a sip of his drink before replying.

“It was no trouble, you needed it.”

“Yeah well, it’s been a difficult week for all of us. I really think you should try and get some sleep, sir.” Kent mentally kicks himself; he’s really not used to calling the DI by his first name.

“Would you mind staying?”

Kent will never admit it but his mouth falls open slightly at the question. He recovers quickly though.

“If you like.”

“Thank you.” Chandler replies. The DI gets out of his chair, and rinses the glass he’s been using before placing it in the dishwasher. “I’ll lend you something to sleep in.” he says.

This is certainly not what Kent was expecting when Chandler had invited him round. He doesn’t really want to mention that he normally just sleeps in his boxers in the summer, or some sleep shorts.

He returns to the living room and sits awkwardly on the sofa until Chandler returns with a t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. They look brand new.

“There’s a new toothbrush for you in the bathroom, it’s the first door on the left.” Chandler informs Kent, before walking into the kitchen; they’ve left one of the lights on.

Kent rises from the sofa and makes his way into an exceptionally clean bathroom. Everything is sleek white and chrome, and it reminds him of a posh hotel. Not that he’s stayed in many posh hotels, or any for that matter. It’s like something out of a posh hotel that you would see on TV, or in a film.

He undresses quickly, and changes into the clothes that Chandler has given him, folding his day clothes into a neat pile. Unfortunately he’ll probably have to get up in 5 hours and head back to his flat for a change of clothes before making his way to the station via the joy that is public transport. He just hopes that no one in the team gets in before him and see that he’s left his bike at the station overnight.

It’s only when he’s brushing his teeth that Kent realises he’s forgotten what day it is. They’d worked through last weekend because of the case and after that all the days seem to have just blurred together like the colours on a child’s watery painting. He spits and rinses his mouth and the toothbrush before exiting the bathroom, pile of clothes in hand.

As he returns to the living room he contemplates the slightly alarming situation he’s in. He’s about to spend the night in his superior’s house, which is partly due to the fact that he’s been a sentimental fool and left his bike at the station to accompany his drunk crush (and boss, don’t forget the boss bit) home, and partly due to what he suspects is Chandler’s still reasonably drunk state. He imagines that he’ll never know whether Chandler would have asked him to stay had the DI been sober, which he clearly isn’t judging by the fact there’d been a glass of vodka in his hand not ten minutes ago. Unless it’s the same glass from before Kent foolishly fell asleep (he doubts it).

There’s a pillow and blanket waiting on the sofa for Kent when he returns, and the young DC feels simultaneously disappointed and relieved. He places his place of clothes down on the floor and waits for Chandler to come out of the kitchen. There’s no light on now, and no light on in the living room either, though the room is partially illuminated by the glow of a streetlamp outside. It throws everything into shades of blue grey, since there’s not enough light for true colour.

Chandler eventually returns.

“I’m sorry about this.” the DI says quietly, his silhouette framed in the entrance to the kitchen.

“It’s not a problem, I don’t mind.” Kent tells his superior, only just avoiding tacking a ‘sir’ onto the end of his reply.

“Sometimes I drink to stay in control.” Chandler states. Kent already knew this, it’s something that he’d observed occasionally, and Miles had let enough information slip to confirm his theories. He doesn’t let Chandler know his though, just nods. They all have their downfalls, their insecurities.

Chandler exhales softly, but loud enough for Kent’s keen ears to catch the sound.

“Honestly, I don’t mind, sir.”

“Joe.”

Kent smiles into the half-darkness that surrounds them.

“I don’t mind, Joe.”

“Thank you anyway.” Chandler walks up to him and lays a hand on Kent’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly before releasing and exiting the room.

Kent lets out the breath he’d been holding. He sits down on the sofa, checks his phone. Hopefully he’s got enough charge to last the night. It also turns out that it’s now Saturday, so he won’t have to get up for work in a couple of hours. He will however, still have to get up and go back to the station for his bike, before returning to his flat to face his flatmates, who will no doubt be curious as to where he’s been all night.

He sighs to himself and stares up at the ceiling until he falls asleep.

*******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m alive! I’ve not fallen off the face of the Earth. I’ve been rather ill I’m afraid, and real life has been rude and not given me much time to write, but enough excuses. I hope you all enjoyed the update! Not as much Chandler/Kent progression as I wanted but sometimes that happens. Lots of character stuff coming up in the next chapter, and possibly some drunk Kent, because we all love how adorable drunk Kent is (or at least I do). Thank you so, so much to all those who have left comments and kudos, you are all wonderful!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been 8 months but basically I started full time work which was so hellish that it made me want to never write another word in my life. I got made redundant a couple of weeks back and have taken up my metaphorical pen again. Thank you for all the kudos, hits, and encouraging comments that made me realise that I needed to keep writing this.
> 
> All mistakes are my own.

***

Kent awakes feeling pleasantly drowsy. There’s sunlight streaming onto him, caressing him with warm rays. He’s so comfortable that it takes a minute or two for him to realise that he’s not in his own bed. He’s not even in his own flat. He is however, on a sofa.

After another minute spent in contemplation of his situation he sits up suddenly, scrabbling for his phone. It’s 8 o’clock, his alarm hasn’t gone off (he could have sworn he set it the night before), and he’s finally managed to remember where he is. Chandler’s flat.

He scrubs a hand through his hair roughly, God knows what he’d been thinking last night, leaving his bike at the station and agreeing to sleep on his DI’s sofa. Then again he tends to jump in without thinking things through sometimes, more than sometimes when it comes to Chandler.

Speaking of Chandler, he’s reasonably sure that he can hear the man in question moving about in the kitchen. Kent slides out from under the blanket he’d been given, folding it carefully and placing it on the edge of the sofa. He picks up the pile of yesterday’s clothes and makes his way to the bathroom to freshen up. He needs time to sort out the fluttering in his chest before he tries to speak to the DI.

As he gets dressed, Kent briefly ponders going commando rather than wearing day-old boxers, but forgoes the idea in favour of turning them inside out. They’ll do for the hour or so it will take him to get his bike and get home. When he pulls his trousers back on he winces slightly at the not-quite-pain of one of his scars stretching. They’re usually a bit tight in the morning and he hasn’t got any of his cream with him, so they’ll have to wait ‘til he gets back to the flat.

After brushing his teeth Kent exits the bathroom. The smell of tea greets him as he walks into the kitchen, as does the sight of Chandler in honest to God pyjamas; well, a t-shirt and some checked pyjama bottoms. Still, this deviation from the DI’s usual clothing leaves Kent slightly breathless, something which he hopes Chandler doesn’t register when he turns round.

“Would you like some tea?” Chandler asks, turning round to acknowledge his house-guest.

“Erm, yes, please.” Kent replies. The morning after the night before is a strange concept to him, as usually he’d sneak out before the person he’d spent the night with had even begun to wake up. Although seeing as he didn’t spend the night in a bed he supposes different rules must apply.

His musings on how to treat your boss when you’ve just spent the night on their sofa are interrupted by a cup of tea, which is being pressed into his hand. Kent’s heart thumps a little faster in his chest at the casual contact.

“Thank you.” he says, taking a sip of the warm liquid.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of breakfast, but I could offer you some toast.” Chandler says, a little apologetic, as if any of them have had time to think about shopping in the past week.

“I’ll be alright, I should be heading back to the station soon, I need to pick up my bike.” Kent replies. As he finishes his statement a little of the warmth that had been present seems to leave the room, and the silence turns awkward.

“Ah, yes. I want to apologise about last night. I’m grateful you didn’t let me drive.”

“Don’t mention it.” Kent says. God knows what would have happened if he had let Chandler drive under the influence. He takes another sip of his tea, using the respite from conversation to try and organise his thoughts. “Honestly, I didn’t mind at all.” he adds.

Chandler eyes him sceptically.

“Really, Joe, it’s not a problem.”

The use of his first name seems to set Chandler at ease a little.

“Still, I’m sorry for my behaviour.” the DI says. “I should never have put you in that position, it was extremely unprofessional of me.”

Kent doesn’t reply, but slowly drinks the rest of his tea, and then sets the cup on the kitchen counter. There’s something of an elephant in the room, but Kent can’t decide which of the many elephants that exist when it comes to him and Chandler it is. He really hopes that the elephant named ‘Kent’s frankly obvious crush on his boss’ is not about to ruin his morning.

“Thank you for staying here. It was -, I needed -, I appreciate it.” Chandler says, avoiding Kent’s gaze.

“That’s alright; after all, I couldn’t let you keep drinking alone now could I? Not after I’ve told you that it’s better if you have company when you drink.” Kent offers his boss a small smile, which is thankfully returned. “Anyway, I’d better be going if I’m going to make it home anytime soon.”

“Yes, of course.”

Kent makes his way to the living room to collect his phone and bag, there’s a couple of texts on his phone, one from Ellie asking how his night had been, accompanied by another wink emoticon, and one from Erica, letting him know that she knew his case had finished and that he’d better take her for that Indian soon.

When he’s collected all his belongings he returns to the kitchen to let Chandler know that he’s leaving.

“I’ll see you at the station on Monday.” he says. In all likelihood, Miles or Riley could ring up this afternoon and demand that they all go for a drink but Monday is the safe bet.

“Yes, Monday.” Chandler says. “Kent-,” Everything slows as Chandler reaches out to touch Kent’s arm, and somehow they’re standing closer than they normally would and Kent has forgotten all about the sun’s warmth coming in through the windows. Chandler’s hand drifts down and there’s a moment of pressure against Kent’s hand so light he thinks he may have dreamed it.

Kent smiles, and the answering smile on Chandler’s face is a soft, hopeful one, and it makes the breath catch in Kent’s throat. It’s like the smile Chandler gives him at the station, when he’s come up with a good theory, or one offered in a moment of comfort and camaraderie, but brighter, more meaningful. They’re still smiling at one another when Kent’s phone beeps, alerting him to the arrival of a text message. He shifts he gaze reluctantly to his mobile.

It’s Ellie, asking him if he’s alright and if he can pick up some bread on his way home, as everything in the flat is mouldy. He rolls his eyes, and curses her timing.

“I’m afraid I’m being summoned.” he says to Chandler by way of an explanation. “My flatmates are in need of some bread.”

Chandler nods in understanding, and reaches over to the counter to grab a ring of keys.

“Let me drive you to the station.” The DI offers.

“I don’t mind getting the bus.” Kent replies. He knows that the chances of someone seeing them together and suspecting anything are probably slim, but he can’t help but worry. Chandler seems to read this in his face, as the taller man says;

“At least let me drop you round the corner from the station, after all, it’s my fault that you had to leave your bike.”

“I didn’t mind.” Kent says, and hopes that Chandler understands he’s not just talking about the bike. From the way Chandler smiles at him, he’s pretty sure that the other man does.

***

“I’ve brought you your bread.” are Kent’s first words as he steps into his flat.

“Bring it here then will you, I’m starving.” Ellie shouts from the kitchen. He takes off his coat and hangs it up before walking into the flat’s kitchen. It’s always been his favourite part of the flat, it’s quite large compared to the rest of the rooms, and it’s homely. Then again the kitchen had always been the centre of his childhood home, so maybe he’s just projecting his general positive feelings about kitchens.

“Here you are.” he says to Ellie, placing the bread on the counter.

“Cheers.” Ellie replies, ripping open the plastic and shoving two slices into the awaiting toaster. Why she can’t take the time to undo the plastic twist at the end of the loaf is a mystery that Kent is yet to solve.

“David around?” Kent asks, wondering about the absence of their mutual flatmate.

“Nah, he spent the night with his new missus, you know, the blonde one he met on that night out we had a couple of weeks back. What’s her name, Lauren, or something.”

“Yeah, I think it’s Lauren.”

“Speaking of spending the night at people’s houses,” Ellie begins, throwing a sly glance Kent’s way, “How come you ended up staying out all night?”

“Err, one of the team had had a bit too much to drink and couldn’t drive home. Thought I’d stay and make sure he didn’t pass out or anything.” Kent tries for a nonchalant tone and fails miserably.

“Oh, ‘one of the team’ eh, wouldn’t happen to be that boss of yours you’ve been pining after for years would it?” Ellie suggests, raising a delicate eyebrow.

Kent puts his head in his hand, he wishes he’d never told Ellie about that, then again it had been a while ago, and he’d been a bit worse for wear with drink: he was hoping she would forget it. Sadly, a year on, she hadn’t.

“Yes it was, we didn’t catch the killer and he was having a bad night, alright?” Kent replies, a little sharply.

Ellie pulls a sympathetic face.

“Yeah I saw that on the news. I didn’t mean to upset you, Em, I’m just teasing.”

Kent manages a weak smile.

“Yeah, I know.” He wants to keep the memory of that morning to himself, if only for a little bit. “I need to go and change my clothes anyway.”

“Yeah, yesterday’s suit is not a good look on anyone, even you.” Ellie tells him.

Kent makes his way towards his room, picking out his comfy jeans and a hoody. Things that he used to wear all the time on the job but that had been assigned to his days off after the appearance of Chandler and his new ways.

He remembers to put some cream on his scars before dressing; they don’t really hurt anymore, only occasionally. At least he wasn’t getting any taller. Apparently growing pains are much worse when there’s scar tissue involved. Erica had her appendix out when she was three and he remembers her curled in on herself with pain as the tissue has stretched.

Once he’s dressed he sits down heavily on the bed. He doesn’t quite know what to make of the morning. The more time that passes, the more he’s convincing himself that the DI was still drunk and that he would later come to regret the quiet moment they’d had together before Kent’s phone interrupted. After all, it takes the body about an hour to process a unit of alcohol, and who knows how many of those Chandler had consumed last night.

Their drive to the station earlier had been quiet, but not awkward. In fact Chandler had seemed remarkably calm considering they’d been standing rather close minutes before. Kent on the other hand had been decidedly flustered, trying desperately not to show it. At least he would probably have until Monday to sort out his thoughts. He’d let Chandler come to him, after all, it wouldn’t do to come across as needy, or clingy, or desperate, or anything else that might put the boss off.

Good God what had he been thinking.

Kent sighs, pulls out his phone and dials Erica’s number.

It rings twice before she picks up.

“Well that was quick!” she says. “Usually I’d have to wait a couple of days before you call me back.”

Kent feels slightly ashamed; he’s been rather neglectful of late.

“Yeah, well, I promised I’d take you for that Indian didn’t I?” he replies.

“Yes you did, when do you fancy going? I can do tomorrow if you can?”

“Tomorrow is fine, Eri. As long as we don’t get called in for another case.”

“I bloody well hope not.” Mansell’s voice registers on the line.

“Shut up, Fin. I’m on the phone” Erica hisses. Kent smiles slightly to himself.

“I can see that.” Mansell says. “Alright mate?” the other DC shouts down the phone.

“Fine thanks you nosey bastard.” Kent says lightly. Mansell chuckles.

“I’ll leave you to it.” The older man says. There’s a wet sound, which Kent assumes is a kiss, and then a giggle from Erica. Bloody hell. This is not what he wanted to hear when he called his sister.

“Are you quite finished?” Kent asks her, after a moment.

“Yes, thanks.” she replies, without a hint of remorse. “So then, tomorrow for dinner, what time?”

“Seven okay for you? I’ll book it.”

“Yeah seven is good, don’t worry about booking it, I’ll go in and do it today, I’m going to that part of town.”

“Fair enough.” Kent says.

“Finlay told me about the case.” Erica says. Kent doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to people calling Mansell anything but his last name. Part of the job he supposes.

“Yeah.” Kent replies. There’s really nothing else he can say, he’d rather not dwell on the Field’s case. Though he knows it will probably keep him up later tonight.

“Well I’m here if you need me.” Erica tells him.

“Thanks.” Kent says, and means it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’d better. Don’t forget you need to give mum a call.” Kent rolls his eyes, and Erica huffs like she’s right there in front of him.

“I will.” He assures his twin.

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.” Kent hangs up.

He decides to text Alex, asking him when he wants to meet up; might as well get all the social stuff out of the way. Then he spends half an hour on the phone to his mum, assuring her that yes he is eating well, no he’s not working too hard, and yes he will come and visit when he gets the chance. He could go for a couple of days, over a weekend, after all his mum only lives an hour away; he could head down on a Friday night and come back on the Sunday. He’ll have to check his calendar.

Speaking of his calendar, Kent gets up and finds a pencil, before circling tomorrow and writing ‘Erica, Indian, seven pm’. He likes using a physical calendar, rather than the one on his phone.

Alex eventually gets back to him and Kent circles Tuesday as well. He’ll meet up with Alex after their shift ends like he normally does, and then they’ll meet Mark at one of the local pubs, or maybe he’ll suggest that they try the new bar he’s heard about.

Kent’s stomach cuts off his musing with a low rumble and he realises that he’s missed breakfast. He wonders idly if Ellie will make him some toast. Or maybe he’ll go out for lunch. He heads out of his room, a soft smile tucked into the corners of his mouth.

***

Six-fifty pm on Sunday finds Kent stood outside the Indian he’s meeting Erica at. He’s tired, and a little grumpy, having not slept well the night before. He doesn’t usually, the first couple of nights after a case, it’s only after a couple of days that he manages to sort his head out and get some rest.

Erica turns up five minutes later, sans Mansell. Kent breathes a sigh of relief; he’d been hoping it would be just them, like old times.

“Hi, Em.” Erica says, greeting him with a smile. They hover outside the door to the restaurant, a little awkwardly. Erica breaks the tension with a laugh. “Stop being weird.” She says looping her arms gracefully around his neck for a quick hug.

Kent rolls his eyes but submits to the show of affection.

“Come on.” he says, “I’m hungry.”

They order drinks and a poppadum platter, and fall into an easy silence as they eat. It’s not until they’ve ordered their main course, and had a couple of drinks, that the conversation starts flowing. Kent thinks he’s probably exaggerating any remaining unease between them, but he’s cautious all the same.

“So, Finlay says you’re getting harassed by the media again.” Erica says when they’ve exhausted their usual small talk routine, including ‘how are the flat mates’ and ‘when do you think we should next go and see mum’.

“Yeah, they turned up after we’d found Fields’ body.”

“Vultures.” Erica says.

“Yeah, well, they’re usually after the boss, although they’ll have a good go at us all every now and then.” Kent says. Something flashes through Erica’s eyes, and Kent realises he’s just brought up Chandler of his own accord, however vaguely. Erica takes the opening and pounces.

“Mansell says you and the boss made up after your argument the other day.”

Kent sighs.

“It wasn’t an argument, I had a theory, I didn’t have enough proof, and the DI disagreed.” Kent explains.

“But you were right.” Erica says, with a grin.

“I was, but I didn’t have the evidence to back me up at the time. It wasn’t an argument.”

“A lovers tiff then.”

Kent tries to prevent himself from blushing but loses the battle.

“Aha! I knew you still liked him!” Erica crows gleefully.

“Keep your voice down!” Kent hisses.

“What? There’s no one in here who knows who we’re talking about.”

“You never know.” Kent insists.

“Fine.” She lowers her voice to a less piercing level. “You told me you’d gotten over your little crush and I knew you were lying. I’m your sister for crying out loud.”

“I resent the fact that you look like the cat that got the cream.” Kent mutters, taking a drink. He hopes that the food turns up soon, if only to give him more options for what to do with his hands.

“You’re not denying it.” Erica points out.

“So I might still have a crush on my boss.” Kent replies. “It’s never going to go anywhere.”

“You’ve been hung up on him for years Em, and it’s not like you haven’t had other offers. You could have any bloke you wanted.”

Kent refrains from scoffing.

“What, I’m supposed to say things like that.” Erica says. Kent appreciates the sentiment despite the fact that they both know he hasn’t had a serious relationship in a long while.

“It’s never going to go anywhere.” he repeats, somewhat dejectedly.

“Fin says he looks at you all the time.” Erica replies swiftly.

“Well that’s it, I’m convinced, he must like me.” Kent says, injecting some heavy sarcasm into his voice.

“He’d be daft not to.” Erica says sincerely.

Kent smiles at her.

“Thanks.” he says. He’s loathe to mention that he stayed at Chandler’s flat, not because he doesn’t trust his twin, but because he knows that it was probably a one-off, and that there’s no point getting hung up about it.

Thankfully their food arrives, providing a welcome distraction.

They eat quickly, both hungrier than they’d realised, and after finishing their meals, and polishing off a couple more drinks, make their way out of the restaurant.

“Thanks for taking me out, Em.” Erica says, as they wait for their taxi.

“That’s okay.”

Erica leans over and places a kiss on Kent’s cheek.

“I love you, you know that, right?”

Kent swallows.

“I know. I love you too.”

“Good. Now that’s enough soppy stuff, let’s go home.”

***

The rest of the week passes in a blur for Kent. The team collectively decide that Friday will be the best night to go out and get smashed together which gives Kent time to recover from Tuesday night, during which he’d allowed Mark and Alex to get him far too drunk. As clichéd as it is, he isn’t as young as he used to be and having a hangover combined with staring at a screen most of the day is a torture that Kent is convinced should only be reserved the worst of people. Or those daft enough to get pissed on a work night.

Wednesday evening is spent at his flat with David and Ellie, catching up with each other and watching whatever trash that happened to be on the telly. David had cooked, which was great because Kent didn’t think he could have faced standing over the hob in the kitchen for any length of time. Kent and Ellie had needled their flatmate about his new girlfriend which went on long enough to prevent anyone from mentioning his stopover at Chandler’s apartment a couple of nights previous.

By the time Friday rolls round he’s feeling practically normal again. He’s managed to get a couple of decent nights’ sleep and they haven’t had any more strange murders, which is always a positive. He and Chandler haven’t discussed what Kent has named in his head as their ‘moment’ in Chandler’s apartment on Saturday morning and the boss hasn’t approached him about it which has strengthened his previous theory that the DI had still been slightly drunk and had not in fact meant to stand close to Kent and let his hand linger on Kent’s arm for an inordinate amount of time. That and Kent is probably reading too much into things. He has a habit sometimes of seeing things that aren’t there.

He hasn’t seen much of the boss at all this week. They’ve all been busy with the day-to-day stuff, the things that get forgotten when you’re chasing a serial killer. Kent feels like he may never finish the heap of paperwork which has taken up residence on his desk.

He’s tying up some loose ends on one of their older cases when Miles suddenly appears at his side, making him flinch slightly.

“Don’t look so frightened lad; I’m not coming over to tell you off.” Miles jokes. Kent rolls his eyes at the Sergeant.

“Sorry, skip. Is everything alright?” He tries to stop his eyes from flicking to Chandler’s office, but they betray him, and he laments his lack of self-restraint when Miles’ eyebrows rise slightly.

“Just came to tell you that we’re going back to mine after the pub tonight. The boys are away at their mates’ houses and Judy’s sister is looking after the baby for a night. Riley’s fella is coming, and I think Mansell is going to bring your sister.”

Kent takes a moment to process this information. He feels slightly wounded that Erica didn’t mention this, but then again, maybe it was only decided today. Regardless the thought makes an unpleasant weight settles in Kent’s stomach and he realises that he’ll have to see Mansell and Erica together, something which he’d been avoiding at all costs. His lips briefly form a grimace before he schools his expression into something more neutral.

“Sounds like a plan, skip.” Kent says, not exactly sure what input is required from him. Miles is exuding an air of innocence which can only mean something untoward is going on.

“Just wondered if you had anyone that you wanted to bring with you, you know, a nice lad that you might be hiding somewhere.” Miles explains.

Ah. So that’s what this was about. Kent is saved from having to formulate a reply by Mansell who has decided to join their discussion despite the lack of an invitation to do so.

“We all know who Kent would like to bring, skip.” The Detective Constable says, cheekily. Kent shoots Mansell what he hopes is a withering look. Mansell just grins at him, but looks suitably contrite when Miles turns to glare at him.

“Erica’s looking forward to it, mate. She says it should be a laugh, she hasn’t been to one of our things since you dragged her to Buchan’s book launch.” Mansell says. And what a disaster that had been, says a small ugly voice in the caverns of Kent’s mind. “She’s going to meet us at the pub later.”

 Kent doesn’t know what to say to this, so he tries to smile. He’s not sure how well it works but Mansell seems pleased enough to leave the conversation. The young detective turns back to face Miles, who’s sporting a rather shrewd expression.

“Everything alright between you two now? You’re not going to start being idiots again? Judy’ll kick you out of the house if you start a fight.” The Sergeant says, only half joking.

“Everything’s fine, skip. Erica’s happy, and that’s the main thing.”

“Good lad. Glad to hear it.” Miles says. The older man’s eyes flick over to Chandler’s office. “I don’t think the boss is bringing anyone, so you won’t be the only one.”

Miles isn’t stupid. Behind those tired eyes there’s a sharp mind, and Kent knows this. Which is why he knows that this seemingly innocent conversation isn’t so innocent after all, and may turn south at any moment. His own eyes move to linger on the other office. The door is closed and the blind is down, a sure sign that the occupant does not want to be disturbed.

“It’s good for him you know.” Miles says quietly, “Having someone else to talk to, apart from me.” He adds, by way of an explanation.

Kent huffs and shrugs noncommittally. He knows that Miles is both more experienced and more adept in helping the DI with his episodes: he doesn’t envy Miles (well, not too much), it’s the truth.

“It is.” Miles insists. “He’s been much better this week.”

“We don’t have a case on at the moment.” Kent points out. Miles frowns at him.

“I know that. He hasn’t been fretting as much though, you know, beating himself up about losing the killer like he usually does. He’s still doing it, just not like he usually does. Whatever is was that you did, I suggest you carry on doing it.” Miles pats him on the shoulder, and then he’s gone, leaving Kent to stew in his own thoughts until Riley comes to ask him if he wants anything for lunch.

***

The evening starts out well enough. They’re in one of the better pubs in the area, and Kent is sure he heard Miles mutter something to Chandler about it being ‘The one with the posh loos’. It’s just the team at the moment. Riley’s husband (Jack, Kent remembers) and Erica aren’t hear yet, and Judy had declined coming to the pub in favour of having some time to herself before they all ended up back at Miles’. Kent thinks she’s probably using the time to tidy up, despite knowing that none of them are bothered how the house looks.

Nearly everyone is on their way to being drunk already, but Kent is trying to pace himself; he’s already had a heavy night this week and he doesn’t want to end up paralytic before the night ends. Or doze off and end up with marker pen all over his forehead. The boss seems to be drinking sensibly as well, following glasses of brandy with ones of water.

Ed and Mansell on the other hand are already red in the face and are having a heated discussion about a comic as far as Kent can tell. Buchan is waving his hands in the air as he talks, and Mansell keeps interrupting him. Riley is laughing at the both of them. “You’re an idiot!” She says fondly to Mansell as the inebriated detective tries to argue his side of whatever argument he and Ed have strayed into. Kent likes watching his team mates. He feels part of the group but there’s no risk of him making a fool of himself.

“Alright, love?” Riley says. She’s managed to sidle up to him without him noticing, which is never a good sign. He hopes that he wasn’t staring at Chandler.

“Yeah.” He says with a smile, “You?”

“Course I am.” Riley replies. “What are you drinking, I’ll get you another.”

“How about I get you one instead?” he asks. Riley grins.

“Such a gentleman!” She coos, and squeezes his arm briefly. He orders her another glass of wine, and a beer for himself.

“When’s Jack getting here?” Kent asks.

“He should be here soon,” Riley says with a smile, “His brother and sister-in-law are babysitting for us tonight, so he’s just waiting on them to get to ours before he sets off.” She takes a sip of her wine. “It’s so nice to be out together as a team again.” She says, and Kent, who’s slightly more relaxed at this point from the alcohol, can’t help but agree. When he looks around at the rest of the team, he can barely see the cracks that had separated them during the Abrahamians case, and when he looks across at the mirror behind the bar, it’s his normal face that looks back at him, slightly more flushed that usual.

They finish their drinks in a companionable quietness broken only by the rise and fall in the noise of the other pub-goers around them, and their own occasional laughter at Mansell and Ed’s antics. Kent turns his head to look for Miles and the boss; they’re on the other side of Buchan and Mansell, and are also laughing, or in Chandler’s case, smiling. Kent catches Joe’s eye, and thinks that the D.I’s smile brightens a little further.

As Kent drags his gaze away from his boss, he catches sight of Erica, who’s working her way towards their group. He gets up and intercepts her as she reaches the bar. She kisses him on the cheek.

“Hello Em.’ She says.

“Alright, Eri?” he replies, trying not to wipe at the lipstick residue he knows Erica will have left on his cheek.

“Yes, thanks. Where’s Finlay?”

Kent tries not to be offended that she wants to see Mansell more than her own twin and succeeds, mostly.

“He’s over here with Buchan.” He says, leading his sister over to where Mansell and the archivist are now discussing ghost stories. “You remember Ed, right?”

“How could I forget?” Erica says charmingly, wrapping her arms round a pleasantly surprised Ed. “Finlay and I met at your book launch.” She adds, moving back and gracing Ed with what Kent knows is one of her most charming smiles.

“I’m glad to have been of service.” Buchan replies, enchanted.

Kent averts his eyes at Mansell greets Erica with a kiss, though his partner does have the decency to keep it short. Erica laughs at them both and then asks if anyone needs another drink. Kent slips away as Mansell and Ed reply. He looks back towards where Riley was and sees that Jack has also arrived and decides to make a detour to the bathroom to see what damage Erica’s lipstick has done.

He finds Chandler in the bathroom washing his hands and his feet halt suddenly.

‘Ah, Kent.” Chandler says, his hands are poised over the sink and he turns towards Kent, water slowly dripping off the ends of his long fingers.

“Hello, sir.” Kent says. Chandler chuckles softly.

“We’re not in work at the moment.” The older man chides, moving to the paper towel dispenser to dry his hands.

“No, I suppose we aren’t, Joe.” Kent replies. He turns to the sinks to look in the mirror. Erica is wearing a lovely plum shade that’s left a bruise-like mark on his skin. He sighs and rubs at stain, before washing his hands. He cheeks are already slightly flushed, but now one has a red mark, marring the skin further.

“Here.” Chandler says quietly from behind him, and holds out a clean, white tissue.

“Thanks.” Kent says gratefully, wiping at his cheek to remove any of the remaining makeup traces. He holds onto the tissue when he’s finished; Chandler is between him and the bin.

“Are you having a good night?” Chandlers enquires.

“Yeah, thanks.” Kent wishes they weren’t having a conversation in the men’s’ toilets, but he’ll take what he’s been offered. “Are you?”

“Yes, thank you.” The DI replies. Kent stands there awkwardly, slowly mangling the tissue the boss had given him in his hand.

"Boss, you in here? Oh-'," Miles has entered the room and is looking between Kent and Chandler as a smirk plays across his face.

"Excuse me." Kent says, and flees the bathroom before he can change his mind. He collides awkwardly with Meg who gives him a decidedly odd look.

"I was just coming to find you." she says, "Ray has ordered the taxi back to his, you nearly got left behind."

Miles and Chandler choose that moment to come out of the men's room. Meg smiles knowingly and it's all Kent can do not to hang his head.  It's far too early in the night for this sort of nonsense and he knows it will just get worse as the night goes on. Judy hasn't had a say yet for starters.

He's saved from Riley by Erica and Mansell who've worked their way towards the rest of the group. Kent smiles reassuringly at his sister; she looks so confident and comfortable, but he knows that she really wants to make a good impression. They're so alike, in that way, but Erica does a better job of it.

"Come on you lot!" Miles yells, struggling slightly to be heard over the crowd. Kent catches Chandler's eye and smiles as the group steps out into the night.

***

By the time they reach the Sergeant's house Kent is feeling a little uncomfortable. He's had much less to drink than everyone else and as Judy opens the door to the house he thinks that his relief to be out of the taxi must be present on his ever expressive face as she takes one look at him and pulls him into a hug, laughing lightly. Erica has trailed in behind him, along with Mansell and as Judy releases him and moves onto Erica he can hear her saying how lovely she is, and - "You and Emerson look so alike, you've both got such a gorgeous dark colour to you ...”

Kent tunes it out in favour of making his way further into the house so that everyone can get in. Miles, who had previously been at the back of the team, is fighting his way to the front and he claps Kent on the shoulder as he goes past.

"You look like you could do with another drink, lad." He says warmly and Kent follows the older man dutifully into the kitchen. He feels safer in here, as he always does in people's kitchens, as daft as that may seem. This kitchen feels, familiar, homely. It’s a place where he can make himself useful, and he gets his wish when Miles hands him a tray of glasses.

"Take these into the living room will you, you know where it is." The skipper says as he pulls various bottles from the fridge and places them on the nearest clear surface.

Leaving Miles behind, Kent makes his way through the house to join the rest of the group in the living room. He’s careful not to jostle the glassware as he bends down and places the tray on the coffee table in front of Judy who is sandwiched between Riley and Buchan on the sofa. He lifts his head to catch her gaze.

"Has Ray got all the bottles?" she asks.

"I think so, I was going to check if he needed any help." Kent replies as he straightens up.

"Thank you, dear." Judy says as she turns to Riley to engage her in a discussion on the pros and cons of becoming a mother again later in life. Kent definitely doesn't have anything to add to that topic of conversation so he works his way out of the room, stepping round Mansell, Erica, Jack, and Chandler; thankfully the latter has his back to him. He breathes a little easier. Interacting with the boss, whether is pleasantly or otherwise always brings a kind of tightness to his chest, a flutter which remains caught somewhere near his breastbone.

"Need any help, skip?" he asks as he enters the kitchen. He glances at the table which has been filled with numerous bottles, together with plates and containers. Miles' head appears to be buried in a cupboard and Kent sees the other man start slightly in response to the sounds of another person in the room.

"I was just looking for some crisps, I could have sworn that there were some in there. Then again, when you've got two growing boys in the house, it's difficult to keep any sort of food safe." Miles says, his muffled voice becoming clearer as the Sergeant extracts himself.

Kent nods as though he too understands the trials of raising perpetually hungry children. Miles notices and shakes his head at Kent in mock despair.

"Never mind lad, help me take some of these bottles through will you? We'll leave the food in here."

Kent watches Miles as he follows him back through to the living room and wonders what the older man had said to Chandler after Kent had so elegantly fled the pub bathroom earlier in the evening. He tries not to dwell on the matter for too long, deciding that it would be better to pour himself a drink and try and forget about the whole thing.

As the nights progresses Kent finds himself standing in a corner with Ed, who keeps telling him how well his book has been doing, and how he didn't expect anyone to be interested, and by the way, had Kent read that particular chapter about a 'very gruesome set of murders indeed ...' (he had, but didn't much fancy discussing brutal murders when he didn't have to). He keeps nodding at Buchan, and makes what he hopes are appropriately encouraging noises as he looks over the top of Buchan's head to survey the room. Mansell and Erica are ensconced together on the love seat, both intoxicated with alcohol, and, he suspects (or would if he were a more romantic soul), each other. A phantom pull of guilt tugs at the back of his mind; it was wrong for him to have come between them. The couple are laughing at something Riley has just said - she's perched on the edge of the sofa which is currently home to Judy, Miles and Chandler. Jack is standing behind his wife, smiling as his hand rests casually on her shoulder, and Meg’s blonde hair is in disarray, her eyes brightened by the glass of red in her hand. Miles and Judy are also laughing, and Kent watches as they turn to smile fondly at one another. Kent's heart aches, maybe Mansell was right; watching other people's happiness makes Kent dwell too much in what he himself is bereft of.

He saves Chandler until last. Savours the look of him. From where Kent is standing no one but Ed can bear witness to his lingering gaze, the way it falls on the DI’s hair, glances over the cashmere jumper, pauses as it works its way back to Chandler’s face, which is warmed by the heat of the room.

Kent’s mouth twists downwards in a grimace. He knows that this road leads to madness.

Tearing his eyes away from the object of his desire he refocuses on Ed who is now watching him far too keenly for a man who has consumed the amount of brandy that Ed has. Kent looks down; he doesn’t want to see the pity in Ed’s eyes looking back at him, doesn’t want to acknowledge his own vulnerability. He draws the conversation back to Ed’s books, and asks the historian if he’s researching anything new. Ed is clearly pleased to have an audience for his work but Kent doesn’t miss the flash of feeling in the archivist’s eyes, even as Ed waxes lyrical about his latest area of focus.

He is eventually relieved from his conversational duties by Erica who has come to inform him and she and Mansell are heading off. She looks as lovely as she did at the beginning of the evening, more so, even, and he tells her so, flushing as his sister’s eyes soften. She rests a hand on his cheek fondly.

“Let me know when you get home.” He says, calling a tired smile to his face as he does so.

“I’ll be fine.” She assures him. “How are you getting back?”

Kent shrugs. He hasn’t really thought about it. He pulls back his sleeve to glance at his watch, it’s nearly half twelve, though he could have sworn it was later.

“I’ll get the bus back.” He says.

“You could share a taxi with us, mate.” Mansell interjects, walking over to where Kent and Erica are stood, and winding an arm round Erica’s waist. A flash of malice, its sting blunted with age, flits through Kent at the sight.

“I’ll be fine, thanks.” He responds. “I’ll talk to you soon.” He tells Erica.

“Yeah, you better call me.” She says, in a tone that plays at being threatening.

“See you Monday, mate.” Mansell says, as he draws Erica away in the direction of the hallway.

“See you.” Kent replies. As they leave he turns to view the rest of the room’s occupants and finds that Jack and Riley are taking their leave too, and have offered Ed a lift. Jack is the apparent designated driver and Kent recalls that man doesn’t drink alcohol.

“Do you want a lift, love?” Riley says, noticing Kent’s eyes on their group. Kent knows that his flat is out of their way though and so declines, repeating his line about catching the bus. He assures a concerned Riley that it will be fine, and after some further persuasion she rolls her eyes and mutters something about him being far too stubborn.

Five minutes later and it’s just him and Judy in the room.

“I think Ray and Joe are out with the fish.” She tells him, as she begins gathering some of the detritus which has accumulated during the course of the evening. Kent nods and starts to help clear up, picking up stray glasses delicately and escorting them into the kitchen where he assists Judy in loading them into the dishwasher. They make small talk, with Kent enquiring after James, Liam, and Sarah. Judy assures him that they are all doing well in their own respective areas, though he’s not sure quite what this entails for little Sarah. James and Liam are in school, so that at least is familiar.

“Ray says that you and Joe have been getting on well recently.”

Kent jolts as Judy’s unassuming sentence cuts through the tired haze which is fogging up the inside of his head.

“Err, …” is his immediate response, as his mind splutters in indignation. Judy waits patiently for him to collect himself.

“It’s not like that.” He manages to force out, after a pause.

Judy smiles slightly at him, and her eyes are far too understanding as she reaches to give his hand a squeeze.

“It could be though.” She replies, letting go of his hand and resting her hip against the kitchen counter. Kent scuffs at the tiled floor with the corner of his shoe like a shy teenage boy.

The sound of the patio door opening breaks whatever spell had been cast over the room and both Kent and Judy stand up straighter as Miles and Kent enter the kitchen.

“Has everyone else disappeared?” Miles asks his wife as he moves to stand at her side. Chandler hovers in the background as Judy answers him.

“You getting the bus, lad?” Miles says to Kent.

“Yeah, skip, I’m going to get going actually, just wanted to say goodbye before I left.” It’s only partially a lie.

“Well his nibs is going too, you could get a taxi together.” Miles suggests and Kent doesn’t like the glint in his Sergeant’s eye. He looks over Miles’ shoulder at Chandler, briefly, but finds the DI’s gaze occupied elsewhere.

“I’m alright, skip. The bus stop is only around the corner.”

Miles rolls his eyes heavenward and turns to Chandler.

“Well I suppose I’ll see you both on Monday then. Let me get your coats.” The Sergeant says in a put upon tone. Kent tries to be as unobtrusive as possible as he watches Chandler say goodnight to Judy and then it’s his turn.

“Thanks for everything.” He tells her. He knows that she means well, it’s not her fault he’s shamefully in love with his superior officer.

“Take care.” She says as Miles re-enters the room with Kent and Chandlers’ coats slung over his arm.

Kent finds himself stood out with Chandler all too soon. There's a chill in the air despite the time of year, though Kent may just be projecting the frostiness he feels between himself and his DI.

“Well then.” The DC says putting his hands into his pockets. “Night, boss.”

Chandler is looking at him, but the expression on his face is isn’t one that Kent recognises. The DI seems to deflate a little at Kent’s words and Kent is unsure of how he should be interpreting this.

“Emerson,” Chandler begins, and something in the DI’s voice makes Kent’s mouth go dry. “Have I, did I do something wrong?”

The neurons in Kent’s brain are short-circuiting and all he knows is that he wants to erase the dejected look that has written itself across Chandler’s face. Before he can formulate any kind of response, Chandler sighs.

“It has been brought to my attention that I perhaps haven’t handled things correctly this week.” The taller man says.

Kent feels a desperate urge to run back into Miles’ house and demand to know what the Sergeant has said because he is not prepared for this in anyway, despite being mostly sober. Speaking of the skipper, he glances at the living room window, where the light is still on. For all Kent knows Miles could be peering at them from behind the curtains; Kent wouldn’t put it past him.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean.” Kent replies, finally.

“I may have been, somewhat lacking in my attentions towards you. Avoiding you.” Chandler explains. “Apparently it isn’t the right way to go about things.”

“I’m not expecting anything, sir.” Kent says. If Chandler’s going to tell him that he has been reading into things too much, that the intimacy that was blooming between them has all been a figment of Kent’s fevered imagination, then he would rather not hear it at all.

“Aren’t you?” Chandler murmurs softly, stepping into Kent’s personal space, “I was rather hoping you were.”

And then soft lips are being pressed tentatively against Kent’s own. Kent’s eyelids fall closed, and he leans into the kiss.

It’s over before it’s barely begun, both of them pulling back. Kent is sure that he’s blushing. Thankfully there seems to be an answering flush on Chandler’s face, only just visible in the glow of the streetlights and the residual light pollution which coats London.

“I -,” Chandler begins, -

“It’s fine.” answers Kent, and their lips find each other again. It’s soft, and gentle. Explorative. Their lips brush against each other, and Chandler brings one hand to curve around Kent’s waist as the other finds its way to the back of his neck drawing Kent further into the embrace.

They break apart again, and then there are a couple more soft kisses, open mouthed but somehow chaste. Kent’s arms have wound around Chandler, keeping them close. When Kent eventually opens his eyes he sees that Chandler looks a little stunned. A quiet laugh works its way out of Kent’s throat and into the open air.

“For someone who claims to not know what they’re doing, Joe, you’re doing just fine.”

 ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that this was at least partially worth the wait. Although this Chapter does make things feel rather finished (to me anyway) I do intend to write more of this to include further cases and more relationship development.
> 
> Also if anyone notices any glaring mistakes please let me know because I'll never find all of them!
> 
> *** I still plan to write more of this! Hopefully they'll be two more stories in the series (one for each remaining case and then maybe some extras) I've put this as completed as I plan to write the other cases as seperate works ***


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